


Artists and Dragons

by TheOneKrafter



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Artists, Canon Typical Violence, Dragons, Found Family, Gen, Main Character continues to not die despite surroundings, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Self-Insert, eight chapters in and we already have found family that must be a record, oc-insert, what tags should i even be adding?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2020-10-28 01:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20770514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter
Summary: Tera is- *was*, your average high school art kid. Then she woke up right outside Riverwood a few months ago.Fuck it, she’s just gonna draw everything till she dies. If she ends up an informant along the way?...that was on accident.





	1. Fish

Notes, notes, _ more notes _…

Ah. There it is. 

Doing a quick look over of the detailed sketch, I carefully tear it out and hand the paper to the kid behind me, not missing the awed gasping sound he makes when he looks at the creature detailed on the page. 

It's a dragon, an ancient frost dragon to be more specific. The damned thing has been roosting up in the hills, too lazy to even sent a thu’um at me from where I sat sketching him in ink. Bastard was probably enjoying getting drawn, hence why dragons strike me as arrogant beings. That would explain Miraak's weird god complex. Then again, a lot of people seem to have god complexes in games. 

This isn't exactly a game anymore, though. Not when I passed through Iverstead and saw a Khajiit woman making her way towards the steps with a follower that looks a damned lot like Lydia with her. It's kind of hilarious that the Dovahkiin in this reality is a Khajiit, dunno how many people I've heard dismiss it as a rumor until she comes walking through their village or city. 

Only a matter of time until she makes her way to the terrible place that is Riften, I do hope to be gone before then. Hell if I know whether she’s _ displaced _ like me or just another person, but where she goes, so does trouble. Thus is the terrible burden of being a main character/savior. 

Thank god I’m not stuck in her place. Ugh. 

“So you _ really _ got this close to a dragon?!” The kid says, crouched in front of my mat. I nod with a grin. 

“Definitely. He was a bit busy sunbathing, so I don’t think he minded a few sketches,” I state, then poke the paper. 

“Ancient Frost Dragon, and he was bigger than this paper leads you to believe.” 

“A load of horse shit,” Snilf says with a sneer to my left, peering at the sketch with narrowed eyes. I lift an eyebrow at the beggar, head tilting. 

“If you’re so certain, why don’t I take you to see it? Then again, I’m not so sure about how the dragon will react to you,” I state, before turning back to the boy. Samual, if memory serves. He’s got the close cut hair. 

“Stuff that down your shirt, dear. I don’t want to risk Grelod taking it when you sneak back in,” I tell him, reaching and patting his shoulder. 

Samual nods, folding the paper carefully and putting it away. 

“Do you have anything else?” He asks with a grin. 

I hum, flipping through my journal. 

“I suppose. Though these would be for viewing only. I wouldn’t mind parting with a few if any of your friends sneak out and want one, of course.” 

Encouraging defiance? Me? Why, I’d never. You’re looking at the most innocent looking person around, how could I do something so heinous? 

You aren’t a delinquent if you never get caught. 

“Alright… but I’m not making any promises. Old Grelod likes to use the paddle when she catches anyone outside,” Samual says with a frown. I try not to let any anger show at that statement. 

“Got it, kid. Now you run along, I’ve got art to draw,” I say with a smile, ruffling his hair before he takes off. 

“You shouldn’t be givin’ things away. People ‘round here will get the wrong idea,” Snilf grumbles, looking at his worn mat. 

“People can think whatever they want, old man. I’ll just keep being kind,” I state. Then, I reach into my satchel and pull out two pieces of beef jerky, handing one to the elderly man. 

Snilf doesn’t say no to the food, he needs it, but the look he gives me shows that I’ve probably only made him more concerned for my survival. 

I’m happy I got more than one sketch of that dragon, though. No matter how happy it made the kid, I really do get really happy looking at them. How many people can say they drew a living breathing dragon only fifty feet away from them? Not many living people and certainly no one from back home. 

Two people stop by and ask a few questions, buy sketches. One of a recently emptied Bleak Falls Barrow, another of Whiterun in the distance. A birds eye view of Whiterun from the cloud district, and a guard looking contemplatively at a bird who’s landed next to him. 

Skyrim is beautiful and it’s right before my eyes. If I can capture even a little of it before I get killed, I don’t mind being here so much.

At least I’ll never have to go to Highschool again, though I do miss the nice accessible art supplies in art class. And by accessible I mean finders keepers. Everyone knows you don’t leave crap lying around in there, Art kids are vultures. 

I make enough money for another week at Haelga’s, even if she doesn’t like me much. I’m a bit too close to adventurer and beggar for her tastes, but I pay on time. That’s good enough for her. 

I don’t mind parting with my drawings as much as I used to. I can’t really make copies and not selling them means getting a normal job or starving. It’s not fun, yeah, but they’ve all got my name scribbled on them. At least everyone knows who made them?

I draw Riften’s market later in the day, when there’s fewer people about and it’s almost time to close up the stalls. Brynjolf is still letting his elixir be known to all around, but it’s all quieter now. I wish I had my watercolor to capture the way the sunlight hits everything right now. Fills this place with warm color in contrast to its very nature. 

I’ll settle for my ink, though. I know it’s better than nothing.

The market takes shape from where I’m standing. I’m not in it, a little ways away, but it’s better to get the full picture than nothing. I wonder how much colored inks would cost? Or normal paint. Though paintings would have to take longer than my drawings. I’ll have to think on it. 

I move closer and browse the wares, trying to find the right angle to start another drawing. I lean against the edge of the stone wall, next to Madesi’s stall, and start drawing what’s in front of me. The well, Madesi and his stall, and a curious looking Brynjolf looking at me, elixir in hand from where he stands. That and the buildings behind them. 

I finish when everyone is putting their things away, smiling triumphantly at another good ink drawing. It’s odd, how consistently good everything I’ve made so far has been. I won’t test my luck and question it though. I’m hoping it’s some sort of gift for dealing with losing everything. 

Ha. Morbid. 

I gently hold my sketchbook/journal open as I wait for it to dry, watching quietly as everyone finishes up. Madesi walks up to me. 

“I saw you drawing, Artist. May I see what you’ve made?” He asks, hands carefully clasped in front of him where he stands. I nod with a grin, turning my sketchbook and stepping a bit closer so he can see. 

“This is well made. What are you doing in a place such as this?” Madesi says, looking up from my picture to me. 

I shrug. “Enjoy the beauty of Skyrim, wandering until I meet my end, the like. What’s a fine man like yourself doing in a place such as this?” I hum with a smile. He’s a good man, and he most certainly deserves better than this city. It’s bigger than in the game, more people, more canals, more badness. It’s a wonder how these people stay afloat. 

“You jest, fair lady. A wish to travel is what brought me here, this city keeps me here. Willing or unwilling,” the Argonian tells me. Oh my goodness he’s so respectful. I’m going to be his best freaking friend. 

“Well that’s unfortunate. Would you like to get dinner together? I’ve seen you at the Bunkhouse, but I tend to avoid eating there if I can,” I offer, rolling on the balls of my feet. He looks surprised, but nods. 

“I would be happy to, if you’re heading there as well. May I ask why you avoid it?”

We start walking now, and I hum in thought. 

“The other men aren’t very nice to Svana. Tythis specifically,” I explain, absentmindedly closing my now dry sketchbook. “I don’t like it, and I don’t think my butting in would stop it. I’m squishy.”

“I agree that it is uncomfortable. Tythis listens to very few people, though, so my interference would do as little as your own.”

We enter the bunkhouse, Madesi holds the door open for me and closes it behind us. Tythis is already settled at one of the tables and hasn’t started harassing anyone yet, but I definitely don’t want to sit anywhere near him. 

Why do some people have to act so shit to others? 

I settle down away from the dark elf, and Madesi sits in front of me. 

“So you wander and draw your illustrations?” Madesi asks. I nod, laying my sketchbook down on the table. I don’t set my bag down though. This is Riften and I’m not that gullible. 

“Yep. I’ve been from Whiterun, Falkreath, here and most in between. I wanted to try and walk up the thousand steps, but there’s wolves and things that far up the mountain, not stuff I want to deal with,” I explain, propping my cheeks on my palms. “So far I’ve mostly avoided any altercations, but once I move on from here that may change. Somebody can only be lucky so long.”

“A grim view, but a logical one. Are you moving on soon?” Nearby more and more are coming into the bunkhouse. The food here is cheaper than the stuff at the tavern. Doesn’t taste as good, but it’ll do the trick on a budget. Haelga herself is greeting people now, and I can spot a tired looking Svana peering out from the kitchen. 

“Depends. There’s lots to draw, but I don’t know if I want to be around the Thieves guild for long. I have a feeling I know who’s in and who isn’t,” I say. “Shady individuals selling snake- er, _ suspicious _ stuff or accosting people when they come into town.”

Madesi nods at this, looking unhappy himself. “The guards like to talk as if they’re scampering only in the Ratway. Were you too bothered by Maul at the gate?”

I make a so-so gesture with my hand. 

“He was mighty intimidating for sure. Didn’t get roughed up though, he just asked what a little girl was doing wandering around. Thought ‘drawing’ was a funny explanation.”

Svana and Haelga are taking orders now it seems, starting on the other side of the room. I don’t mind. As long as I get food at all, I'm good. 

My eyes narrow when I spot Tythis pat Svana’s butt. 

Bitch is getting fish in his bed, fuckin watch. I sleep in the same room as the idiot. Bet. 

“From what I’ve heard his brother is apart of the Guild, though you didn’t hear that from me. If you see anyone in dark leathers and a hood, walk the other way.” 

“And if I can’t walk the other way?”

The young man sighs. “Give them what they want, or shove a dagger in their ribs.”

Enlightening. I’ll be sure to file that one in important.

* * *

Sneaking around in the middle of the night in Riften. Not one of my brightest ideas, but fish doesn’t find itself. 

There’s barrels everywhere just waiting to be plundered. They’re practically asking to get used for my nefarious purposes, alright? 

I’m shoving fish in a sack, in the middle of the night, in Skyrim. Funny where life takes you, huh?

The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand up and my head snaps to the side. I’m making eye contact with Brynjolf. 

“Uh. Sup.” I’m clearly articulate and intelligent, can’t you tell? That AP English class clearly didn’t go to waste. 

Damn. This is where it ends. Hope the redhead gets a kick out of this story though. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Brynjolf asks, looking completely at ease and with a smile on his face. 

“A bit. Ah, look at the time. I’d better be heading back to bed. Was just enjoying the fresh air, y’know?” I hum, face the perfect picture of innocence. My stance is carefully one of casual calm. One could almost ignore the sack of fish at my side. 

“Clearly. What are you doing with that fish, lass?” Brynjolf asks, playing along in the whole innocent conversation bit. 

“Bunkmate if mine is asking to wake up next to some bedfellows. Figure he’ll stop harassing other people if he gets some,” I practically hum quietly. I pick up the small sack of fish almost silently and start walking past the thief. I’m stopped by a big hand on my shoulder. 

“Mind me asking what bunkmate?” I wonder where he’s going with this interaction. He could’ve just ignored me, but whatever. I can roll with this. 

“Tythis. There’s only so much one can take, you see,” I say. My expression hasn’t slipped once, and I’m quite proud of that. 

“I do. Tell me, Artist, would you be interested in a job?” Then my expression slips, a grin that I can’t stop appearing. 

“Ah, no. I know your ilk, Mr. Thief. I’m content drawing pictures and being dirt poor, thank you.” I gently lift his hand from my shoulder and take two steps away from him. “Tell me, how’s that tavern look down in the Ratway? I heard you sell Black Briar mead half price.”

Brynjolf only laughs with a weird look on his face. “Fine, fine. You’ll be back though. You know where to find me.”

“No, no I don’t think I will be. Have a lovely night, sir. The moons are bright.”

I walk back to the bunkhouse unseen by guards, then I manage to slip the fish under Tythis’s blankets undetected. 

Pro tip, the easy kid is always the one best at hiding the bad things they do. You’re looking at a first born with a habit of sneaking up on siblings. 

Tythis wakes up and screams like a little girl in the morning. 

It’s glorious. 


	2. that one time in the ratway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tera goes places she really shouldn’t, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have started writing in comic sans to make the words come out faster and I think I know what being cursed feels like now.

Tythis thinks Grelka did it, since she’s a racist. I’m actually quite content to keep it that way. 

I’m pondering whether I want to try the Ratway and get to The Ragged Flagon. If face sculpture lady is allowed to hang out there I should be fine. Right? Probably not. I probably won’t live longer than a year anyways so I’m up for whatever to be honest. 

How many people can say they made it through the Ratway and did fine though? Serious street cred man. 

I sell a few more pictures, more than the day before since word is spreading. Wow, someone who can actually draw? Crazy, I know. If I live long enough I’d be fine just drawing portraits for people. Rich people. Maybe in the Imperial City or Solitude. Solitude is full of rich nobles dicking around. 

Behind every single one of my illustrations is a sentence about the picture. Works like a title or whatever. Adds character to the picture. Like the Guard and bird from yesterday. 

‘ _A Whiterun guard and his unexpected bird friend_ ’ 

Stuff like that. 

Wonder what I’d write about the Ragged Flagon if I drew that. Something like ‘ _ The Ragged Flagon, half price mead and aggressive companions _ ’. 

Yeah.  _ Nice _ . 

I’ve got a sitting cushion now, bought two for Snilf and Edda too. Figure if I’m gonna be sitting on the ground so much I might as well protect my poor butt. 

Snilf thinks I’m a stupid idiot, but again, he’ll never say no to a gift. I think Edda almost cried. 

This place is a cesspool. At least it’s beautiful. 

Fuckin Brynjolf keeps giving me subtle looks, I can  _ feel them.  _ Every time those grey eyes hit me. Ugh. Should’ve pretended I was stupid, would’ve saved me the trouble. 

I draw a portrait of Nivenor, Bolli’s wife, as she talks all about this and that. Gossip, mostly, and a few comments on my appearance thrown in. Nothing rude, just abrasive observations. When I’m done and hand over the ink portrait she forks over fifty coins. 

Yeah. Definitely gonna be doing portraits for rich people at some point. She just took the asking price and didn’t even blink. 

I shove the coins into my coin pouch before shoving it into the waistband of my pants again. Then saying a cheerful goodbye to the Bosmer woman. 

Methinks I’m going to chance the Ratway this evening. I would just use the secret passage, but that’s a good way to get gutted. I’m defeatist, not stupid. 

How to handle the goons inside though…

Samuel appears with two kids in tow. Runa and… a boy. Can’t put a name to the face, the game didn’t really help with that. 

“Afternoon, Samuel. You brought friends then?” I ask, a smile on my face. Samuel nods. 

“They want dragon drawings since you  _ promised _ .” He puts extra emphasis on promise, and I nod easily. I made a lot of dragon drawings, since when do you get the chance to draw a real life  _ dragon _ y’know? 

I flip back to the drawings and let them choose two. The excitement is palettabe on these ones, both of them practically bouncing with it.

They pick their drawings and I carefully tear them out and hand them to them.

“Thank you!” Runa says. There’s stars in her eyes for sure as she stares at the drawing. The boy follows with an equally happy thank you. 

“Alright, you kids get back now. Don’t want you getting caught by Grelod.” I wave them off, wary of the guards around. I dunno who’d tattle, but I’m not going to be the reason these pure babies get beat. 

They do run off, though Samuel falters a little like he doesn’t want to go. 

I watch them walk off before sighing. 

It feels like it takes forever to be evening, but it gets there. I shove my cushion into my bag and set off down onto the lower Plankside, only once I’ve seen Brynjolf enter the Bee and Bard. He may come back out and follow me or something, I  _ read _ , but it does put me a little more at ease. The oranges in the sky reflect onto the murky water. 

The gate opens with a creak, but the door is silent. Well oiled and well used. It clicks shut barely audibly and I’m greeted with the dimly lit corridor ahead. 

No goons talking, that only happens when the Dragonborn comes around. 

I don’t bother picking up the axe I pass, and I step carefully around the bedrolls in the way. There are bottles of wine, as well as old well used bowls and spoons. The two bros who greet the Dragonborn are evidently not around for sure right now. 

My steps are silent when I step through the next doorway. 

Oh. The stupid bridge is down. Guess that was a one time thing for the Dragonborn. 

I walk across the bridge and wonder where everyone is. Probably drinking to be honest, seems like a thing that fugitives would be doing at this hour. 

No lowlife either. Definitely a drinking binge going on that I wasn’t invited to. 

I wonder how people in the tavern are gonna react to my pansy ass waltzing in. Eh, their fault having the bridge down.

I walk to the door and open it. It’s quiet. Well used and oiled too. Apparently someone likes keeping the squeak down. Interesting. 

I close it just as quietly behind me and take in the sight before me. 

It smells like mildew in here, but it’s still very aesthetically pleasing for what they’re going for. A sewer hideaway with a cool hole up top to keep the l smoke from building up. 

Up towards the bar it seems I was right. I can see a lot of drunk people or trying to get drunk people. Though face sculpture seems to be sitting very elegantly at the edge of it looking disgusted. 

Amazing. Don’t think I can get away with drawing this though. I’ll have to do it later. Mental snapshots brain, mental snapshots. 

I walk up to and stop at an intimidating Dirge. 

“How’d you get so tall?” I question him. 

“My ma made sure to feed me. Name’s Dirge, how’d you get down here?” He doesn’t look too bothered by me, so I shrug. 

“Got curious. It true you’ve got half price mead?” I’m genuinely curious, alright? 

He scoffs. “Course we do. Walk on in, kid, but people here bite.” I grin in response. 

“Good thing I can bite back, Dirge. Name’s Tera.” I walk right in, and I don’t miss the calculating looks on every one of the guild members. I walk straight up to the barkeep. 

“I’d like some mead, barkeep,” I state with a smile. His expression never changes from gruff and annoyed. 

“Ten gold.” He doesn’t stop wiping a tankard as he says it. 

“Seven. I heard you sell em half price.” My expression changes about as much as his does. 

“Eight or I call Dirge I’m over here, brat.” The barkeep says, and I take it easily. His face still doesn’t change when I grab the money out of my waist. 

Huh. Guess you’ve gotta be unflappable to handle a bunch of thieves all the time. 

He sets the mead down on the counter and waves me off, so I take an empty seat right by the water and watch the very much not guild members. You can tell they aren’t, since they don’t seem to give a shit that some new pansy walked in. Bad idea, considering a new pansy will probably be here to kill their asses some point in the next month. 

I'm not intimidating at all to look at. From my scarf, sweater, to my boots I’m pretty non threatening. Hell, the only weapon I carry is shoved in my boot, so it’s not like I look like I’m packing heat. 

Again. Unarmed pansy. 

The mead is chilled when I take a sip of it? Frost runes? Witchcraft? Either way I don’t mind much. 

I watch everyone slowly get shitfaced in quiet amusement. Two of the guild members, men, have decided I’m uninteresting and not a threat from their not paying attention to me anymore. A woman is still paying attention, though it’s much more subtle than in the beginning. 

Yo. I’m in the Ragged Flagon. Fuck yeah. 

Brynjolf appears from the guild door decked in thieves guild leathers and spots me immediately. He gets the weird look on his face again, and heads towards me.

Wonder if he thinks I’m here to take him up on his dumb offer. 

He sits down in the seat in front of me, but my at ease face is on already, settled like stone. 

“You here for my offer, lass?” He asks, but I can tell he knows I’m not. Something about him says it. 

“Nah. Like I said, just wanted to check out the mead. Tell me, who’s most likely to toss me in the water if I start sketching?” I ask conversationally. 

“Vex most likely. How’d you get down here in one piece?” 

“No one was around to stop me, big bridge down and all. You’ve got to up your security, Mr. Thief. Maybe spikes. People hate those.” I take another sip of my mead. 

“What makes you think that’s my job?” He doesn’t think I’m that dumb, right? I know I don’t exude genius or anything, but I’m intelligent. 

“I’m sure you can answer that. Reading people is your schtick, right?” I pull out my sketchbook, pencil, and eraser. “You mind me drawing you? You’ve inspiring cheekbones.” 

“Whatever you want, lass.”

I start drawing him. He is a handsome man, it’s easy to see how he manipulates people into doing what he wants just on face alone. He’s particularly roguish looking though, and it isn’t just the thief’s leathers and bad boy hair. 

“Should be careful saying that to people,” I comment idly.

He’s observing me, trying to make conclusions and the like. I’m just here because it’s interesting. That, and this place is too interesting not to try and enjoy. 

I’ve got his basic features down when he speaks again. 

“Why are you here?”

Why is anyone here? What’s the meaning of life? Where do we go when we die? 

“I’m too curious for my health. People talk about a disease holding this city from down here, thieves and scoundrels hiding in the sewers. Why haven’t you kicked me out yet?” One of the thugs starts a fight with another. I barely flinch and Dirge starts carrying them out by the back of their necks. 

“You’re intriguing, Artist. Smarter than most. What are you hiding?” 

I don’t stop drawing, and shrug. 

“What are you, Mr. Thief? Equivalent exchange and all that. Though I guess you can’t relate, stealing is pretty one sided,” I say it with a bit wider smile, working on the drawing’s shading. 

There’s much less light coming in through the hole now. Everything glows in candlelight and the moon-  _ moons _ shine against the pool of water behind me. 

People are still being rowdy and stuck right near us, but the quiet over here is… quiet. 

“You’ve balls the size of a giant’s, Artist. I’ll give you that,” Brynjolf says with finality. Good for me. Confidence keeps people from getting killed in places they should be. Or maybe they do get killed, but with  _ style.  _

“I’m told that’s called big dick energy,” I offer in a never changing tone. A guild member nearby chokes on his drink. Sloppy of him. “Has anyone told you you have piercing eyes? Dagger like, in fact. Thought you ought to know.”

He does, they’re very pleasing to draw. Right along with the cheekbones. 

And so time passes like that, witty quips passed between the two of us as I finish his portrait and my mead. I’m hitting that nice fuzziness level of drunk, which is probably bad for my continued wellbeing. Oh well. 

I lift up the now dry portrait inside my journal and turn it to show him. 

“Your face is now immortalized. Come a few hundred years historians will wonder how a scoundrel could look so pretty,” I state. He chuckles. 

“Good to know, lass. And is said immortalization for me?” He asks. I huff in amusement. 

“Nice try, I’d need some gold first. For now it’s staying with the others.” I lay my journal back down and watch the rest of tavern in full swing. 

“You drive a hard bargain, lass. No leniency to your muse?” Brynjolf asks. 

“You’ll get a little blurb on the back. ‘Brynjolf, the man who saw me steal fish’, in little letters. Only children get free things.” I watch a man losing terribly to a game of cards. My hand goes to my pen again and I sketch his look of despair surrounded by his companions’ merriment. 

“Ah, yes, urchins are above the rest. Tell me, lass, was that a sketch of a Khajiit I saw earlier in your little book?” Oh ho, someone’s fishing for

information in a drunken minor. I see how it is. 

“Perhaps. Depends on what you’re offering,” I say simply, watching him lift an eyebrow. Come on, handsome man, information like that doesn’t come for free. 

“Ten gold,” He says simply. I grin. 

“Thirty.”

“Fifteen.” 

“Twenty-seven, and I hand over the picture. Trust me, you’ll want it.” I watch the way his lips twist. 

“Deal. Is it who I think it is?” He asks. I hold out a hand and count every coin that drops, before pocketing them. 

I flip through and stop at a careful drawing. 

“The Dragonborn, you mean? Definitely. And I hear she has sticky fingers,” I tear the page out with a practiced hand. It’s a farther view than preferred, but it’s her. Leather armor, three piercings in one ear and two in the other. 

“Blue eyes, dark fur, and she’ll likely have a tag along. You can’t miss her,” I state, handing the paper over. 

“Glad to do business with you, Artist. You’re not what I was expecting.” 

I laugh. “Did you think I came here with the intention of selling information, cheekbones? I’m here for the pretty pictures. Some extra coin is a bonus.” 

“It true that she stole a guard’s shield from his arm without him noticing?” Brynjolf asks. 

“Probably. I’m leaving town before she shows, though. Heard trouble follows her.” And it does, Whiterun was peaceful when I was there. I hear they had a fuck ton of shit go on a day before she stepped in the gates. 

“And here I thought I’d get used to your compliments, Artist. Sure I can’t convince you to join?” He asks. 

“I like art far more than I’ll ever enjoy stealing, thanks but no thanks. Besides, I want to hit Windhelm and Winterhold before it gets too cold for my ‘ _ provincial _ ’ self. Don’t know how you Nords manage,” I state. 

Someone throws a table. Dirge throws him. It’s glorious. 

“We find sleeping partners, last I heard.” My blood pressure  _ spikes.  _

That was a test, tha _ t was a test, that was a tes _ ** _t-_ **

You are small, Tera. No thirty year old cheekbones for you. 

Even if you wanna. 

“Yes. If only I could find one my age,” My voice is deadpan. “Because there is a great amount of  _ boys _ my age not caught up in the civil war, and no  _ men _ with dark intentions at every corner.” I take a drink. 

“True enough.” He takes a drink. He’s learned something from that reaction, at least. “I would suggest finding yourself someone who can fight, though, lass. You’ve the look of easy pickings.”

“ _ Easy- _ ? I’ll have you know I knocked out a bandit on my way to Riften. With a knife,” I say, faux-offended. If the bandit was turned around and not paying attention at the time, that’s my business. 

“Knocked out?” Brynjolf asks. I grimace. 

“I don’t do…  _ killing.  _ There’s enough death going on right now without me adding to it.”

Besides, killing people is for losers who can deal with having ended another person’s whole existence. I am not one of those losers. I am not the majority around here. 

I leave the Ratway with a few pages worth of sketches, probably an informant job if I’m ever in town, and very much not sober. 

It’s not my fault, I’m a teenager. I do things I really shouldn’t. 

Okay yeah it’s my fault, but no more bad feelings juice? Best thing I’ve ever seen-  _ had _ . AP English has never failed me. Not. Once. 

My comfy, knitted scarf is pulled up to my nose now while I make my way back to the Bunkhouse, bag secure on my shoulders and a tiredness seeping into my bones. I should probably leave tomorrow or the next day. Summer is still around but not for long, not with Last Seed hitting it’s midway point. 

I also probably need a horse, but… how does one take care of a horse? They feed it, yeah, but I’d need horse care items too, right? Like a brush and to get it checkups, make sure it’s not depressed. If it’s a lady horse then I have to deal with her periods, don’t I? 

Horses get periods, right?

There has never been such a time that I needed google more. Life is bleak and I’ll probably never have enough money for a horse anyways. 

I wake up the next morning with no idea when I got into bed, and a headache. My journal has ten new pages of sketches and they’re all of things entirely too high up to have been drawn. 

That’s a problem for future Tera. For now we sleep the headache away.


	3. Riften to Windhelm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter in the beginning and it’s all downhill from there. Or uphill? Geographically it’s downhill, what with Eastmarch being lower.
> 
> Alternatively, 
> 
> Oh no bandits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took too long. The next one will happen... eventually.

I set out again, giving my farewells the day before. I need to get a move on if I want to draw some cool shit. 

The sky is a collage of pinks and oranges, tinting the clouds and splashing the already colorful Rift with light. 

It’s pretty, but I don’t have paint. I really need to fix that once I have the money. 

Speaking of money, my coin is safely tucked away in my pants in many different inside pockets. Is anyone going to feel there for my coin? 

...Hopefully not. Which means I don’t lose my hard earned seven-hundred-and-sixty gold.

Okay so maybe I’m not that poor, but if I spend the money then it’ll be gone and then I’ll die of starvation under a bridge, or something. 

I stop a few times to draw various things that catch my interest. The watchtowers that occasionally dot the road, Shor’s Stone, a little mining village, and it’s working people. There’s no coin to be earned there, but it’s still filled with interesting things, like a red and gold bird that chirped on top of the Blacksmith’s and a guard haggling with said Blacksmith. 

I make it past there and halfway down the cliffs before things get dicey. 

See, the plan was to make it to Darkwater Crossing before dark, or at least close enough that if I scream someone will probably run and help. 

That plan was interrupted by bandits. 

“Hand over your gold, girl, and we won’t hurt you,” The lead bandit, an orc covered in scars and Scaled Armor, states. His battleaxe is held to my throat one handed with ease. 

Uh. Oh no. 

“Is ‘I don’t have any’ a good answer?” I ask weakly, arms held up. My journal is in one hand and a pen in the other. “I’ve got barely a hundred gold, and I’m afraid I don’t carry many valuables. I’m a traveling artist.”

The sharp part of his battleaxe presses uncomfortably onto my throat.

“What part of hand over your gold do you not understand, girl?” He asks, voice low. 

Right. Great thing I have contingency plans? 

I reach back slowly and unhook my backpack, setting it on my chest and pulling out a small pouch of ninety-eight gold. 

I hold it out, one of the other bandits snatch it away. I make an appropriately mournful face. 

“No jewelry?” The Orc asks in the same dangerous tone. 

“No sir. Stuff just gets in the way,” I reply nervously, pointedly looking him in the eye and not at his weapon. 

“Sir, she says,” One of them snark. Orc’s face doesn’t even twitch. 

“I don’t think this is nearly enough for the trouble we’re putting in, boys,” The Orc says. I tense. 

If they try and rape me I’m cutting off a dick, I  _ dare _ them. 

“Search her bag. Tell me, artist, do you think you can draw me?” The Orc asks. My bag is yanked away from me and I make no move to protest. They’re rummaging through it now, but all they’ll find is clothes and pretty rocks. General camping supplies ignored, of course. 

“You do strike an imposing figure,” I offer. The man laughs. His axe still hasn’t moved. 

“Draw me a good picture and I’ll let you off without a scratch, girl. If you fuck this up I’ll just have to touch you up a bit. Send a message.”

Oh god I’m nauseous. Don’t throw up in front of the terrifying men, Tera. It’s bad for your health. 

“Okay,” I offer weakly, not trying to nod with the metal at my neck. He grins, all sharp tusks, and removes the axe. 

“Good. Now get started before I get bored.”

I quickly open my journal and look back up at him. 

“Upper half body or just your head?” I ask quietly, afraid to set him off. 

“First one, now fucking get a move on.” This is punctuated with him sending the bottom half of his axe onto the ground. The clang makes me flinch. 

Right. Drawing time. 

I begin with his face, as I usually do for portraits, and carefully line of his jaw comes to being. His sharp tusks, lips pulling into a dangerous grin. 

He dynamic looking, at least. 

“What in oblivion is with all these rocks?” One bandit, a wood elf, says incredulously. 

“They’re pretty?” I respond, not bothering to look up from my task. Or, rather, not wanting to risk any ‘roughing up’. 

Look at it this way, Tera, if you were the Dragonborn you would’ve been attacked on sight! Your softness has saved you from death. For now.

One of the other bandits, a Nord this time, scoffs what sounds like “Milk Drinker”.

Dark eyes of a predator playing with pray, both sides of his head freshly shaved with the top bit pulled into a knot at the upper back of his head. Big, dangerous muscles, scars. A lot of scars. 

It’s the fastest portrait of my life, but I quickly hand it over and pray to any god listening. Divines, Seven, Old Gods, Andraste, God, Allah, I’m not feeling particularly picky. 

He stares at it, grinning. 

“Now that’s some good work! What do you think, boys? Say she’s free to go?” He asks.

Please say yes?

There’s grumbles of agreement, I nervously tug my scarf farther up on my face. 

“Well, you heard them little artist. Leave before I change my mind.” Not a warning, a promise. Leave quickly or I’m getting something worse than my money stolen. 

I let out a quick, quiet thank you and hurry over to my stuff strewn all over the road. I’m quick to toss it all in in no particular order, because I’ve wasted time with this and I’d rather hit Darkwater Crossing before dark. Dark means Vampires, and Vampires will do a fuck ton worse than bandits. 

The bag is back on my shoulders in less than two minutes, and I’m leaving immediately. The bandits have moved back into the shadows, ready to ambush another more unlucky traveller. 

I saw the bloodlust and worse in some of their eyes, I was lucky the Orc didn’t feel like killing me. 

I’m back to sketching by the time I’m at the bottom of the cliffs, hitting Eastmarch’s tundra hot spring mix. Also known as a crime to nature, but that’s just my opinion. 

There’s hunters and the like occasionally visible in the hot springs, so I draw them too. I’m gonna need a new sketchbook before I hit Winterhold, I’ve never went through this many pages before. 

Feels almost…  _ supernatural  _ how consistently good I’ve been. 

Suspicious stare at any gods listening. Or Daedra. Wouldn’t put it past a Daedra. 

The sun is setting by the time I hit Darkwater Crossing. Very lucky of me and the sunset hits the water just right. Fuck I miss my watercolors. 

“Greetings, traveler! Just stopping for the night?” A dark elf asks once I come near, just settling in a chair by the fire. 

The little settlement is tidy. Bedrolls and tents set up neatly to the side with a fire at the center of them, a cozy looking cabin of usual Nord make, and a path towards the mine. Not a bad place to spend the night, even if being so in the open makes me a little nervous. 

“That’s the plan, sir. Would’ve been here earlier if it weren’t for bandits up the road,” I say with a strained smile, unhooking the straps of my bag and setting it down carefully near the rest of the tents. 

“Bandits? Are you hurt, girl?” He asks, making an aborted move to check on me, concern in his old red eyes. 

“Luckily not. My lack of money was made up with drawing skills, their chief seemed to think my portrait of him made up for it at least.” I plop down on the ground by the fire, not bothering to unhook my bedroll yet. 

I eye the guards who most definitely heard that. The fuckers act like I’m not here. Useless. Absolutely fucking useless. No wonder the Dragonborn had-  _ has _ to do everything. 

“Well that’s certainly lucky. You’re an artist by trade, then?” More people are meandering over to the fire now, another man and a woman and child. 

“Yup. In a deadly world like this I figure I might as well go do what I want to do before I get killed off.”

I sleep soundly with guards around that night, better than I did in Riften at least. Never know who’s gonna try and rifle through your bag in that city, especially when you’re sleeping. 

I leave with little fanfare, managing one portrait before I’m on the road again. I should hit Windhelm by the evening, if I’m lucky. If not I find a nice tree to climb. Have I climbed a tree since age thirteen? No. Does it matter when everything is trying to kill me? No again. 

There’s sabercats.  _ Sabercats _ I tell you. Not to mention all the soldiers roaming, and forgive me all my soldier relatives but I’ll never trust a big group of burly men with big weapons, it just isn’t happening. 

There’s lots more ice and snow the more I leave the volcanic tundra and the closer I get to the icy tundra. The mix of steam and ice is oddly pretty, and so is the mix of ancient ruins smattered about. An old eagle statue lies forgotten on a hillside cliff. An old old sword shoved into a pile of dirt and stone some ways in the distance off the road. 

A dragon flying in the distance. 

Yes, Skyrim is a true beauty to behold. As awe inspiring as it is dangerous. I hope to capture some of that in my illustrations for people to see some day, even if my name gets lost and my story forgotten. 

Pictures are nice like that. 

Ugh, I’m becoming sappy. My newfound understanding of mortality and my place in the universe is making me  _ sappy.  _

Quick, draw that tree stump that looks like a penis. Save yourself while you can, Tera. 

“Hail, traveller!” Someone calls. Masculine. Why don’t I ever get to meet interesting ladies? I should’ve drawn Mjoll the Lioness while I could, or Alea, or Sapphire-  _ Saadia.  _ Ysolda definitely, with the white hair and serene face. Very otherworldly. 

I turn and spot a muscled Nord man with a good five or six inches of height on me. Worn clothes, but loved. One steel axe. Gloves. No visible scars but I’d bet on farmer rather than anything else. 

“Afternoon. Wouldn’t suggest shouting, though, this area has a dragon roaming,” I state. Friendly smile and the makings of laugh lines. Generic Nord features. Blonde, though brown eyed, high cheekbones but still some youthful rounding of the cheeks. 

I never used to analyze this much before, I swear! Now everyone’s a possible subject of art. No one is safe. Not even me. 

He takes this advice straight to heart, looking at the sky with mild nervousness. 

“Ah, sorry. I’m not used to the wilds,” He says with an endearing central to upper eastern Skyrim accent. The most stereotypical Nord accent with thick words. Adorable. 

Hm. Definitely farmer. 

“No worries. Where are you off to?” I ask. 

_ Don’t say to join the Stormcloaks. Don’t say to join the Stormcloaks. Don’t say- _

“I’m off to join the Stormcloaks! The Empire doesn’t know what to do with Skyrim, and it’s better to take it back into the Nords’ hands,” He states proudly. 

The Dovahkiin left Helgen with Hadvar. That doesn’t bode well for the Stormcloaks, does it?

“I’m headed to the very same city, though for a different reason. Name’s Tera, I’m an artist by trade.” I hold out my hand. He takes it, shaking with a firm grip. Someone taught him how to shake hands properly. 

“Skjors of Willow Farm,” Skjors introduces himself. “Or, previously of Willow Farm. My sister runs it now with her wife.”

Ah, to be in a not homophobic culture. This is the dream. 

“Suppose we should walk together then, better odds with two than one against wolves,” I say, starting to walk again. 

“Right.” And so the Axe Man follows and I sketch a bird I see. 

We walk in mostly silence broken only by nature and my pen. 

“You’re brave getting in the middle of this civil war,” I offer idly once the silence becomes awkward. 

“Not brave, just doing what a man should for his country,” Skjor says. He’s almost too naive for a man whose lived in  _ Skyrim _ all his life. Though that might add to his disregard for very sudden and brutal death. 

“I wouldn’t get in the middle of it if I were being paid. No offense but I like neither the Thalmor or the racist Jarl. It’s a mess all around, and the Dragons are probably a bigger problem at the moment,” I state simply. Am I hoping to prevent this man’s eventual death? Yeah. Will it work? Probably not. 

“You wouldn’t understand, you’re not a Nord,” Skjor says with a shake of his head. “The Empire deals with the Thalmor and sells the rest of us out. Once they’re gone we can handle the Dragons.”

I shrug. “I saw the smoking husk of Helgen, the burnt bodies disillusioned me to petty conflict. But if you think that the war helps than I have no right to talk shit.”

We walk more. 

“May I see your drawings?” Skjor asks. 

I shrug and hand over my journal. 

He flips through them and I adjust the straps of my bag before twirling my fountain pen between my fingers. 

“You are very skilled, what are you doing wandering Skyrim?” Skjor asks while he flips, taking in the details. 

I shrug again, looking up at the pretty clouds with squinted eyes. 

“There‘s too much beauty in this place to set roots, and too much danger to die lying down. Do you see the dragon drawings?” I say, watching as snow gets more and more prevalent on the ground. Do I walk fast or is Skyrim small? Probably both. 

“You make a good point, artist. Here.” He hands the journal back. 

I spot vaguely familiar landmarks, knowing that we’re close. 

“Here, pick one to keep for yourself. It’ll be good to remember all the beauty when you’re fighting in wars,” I say, handing the journal back. Some things are more important than money or sentimentality.

“You don’t have to-” Skjor starts, but I cut him off. “You’re right, I don’t. Now pick a drawing.”

It’s one of a waterfall and two small spots that were bandits marveling at it. Got that one from behind a bush earlier today. 

I tear it out carefully and hand it over. 

“If you see me around, feel free to say hello. I’ll probably see wherever you’re posted eventually.” 

The sun is coming close to setting and Windhelm lies off in the distance. 

This will be interesting. 

* * *

Skjor and I part ways at the gate, him patting my shoulder before heading towards the keep. I watch him go with my scarf pulled to my nose and shivering with cold. 

Well. That’s that. Now to get a room at the Inn and find some interesting things to draw. 

I step inside and am immediately hit with some nice ambient lute and pretty candlelight.  _ Nice.  _

“This here's Candlehearth Hall. Great room's upstairs, an' there's a bed for rent on the ground floor. I’m Elda if you need me,” Elda the innkeep greets from her delightful counter. Ah the architecture here is very nice already. 

“I need a room, if you don’t mind. How much?” I ask. 

She’s very nord and I’m not surprised. Ponytailed blonde, cheekbones, blue eyes. Middle aged with calloused hands and wrinkles. Very pretty when she smiles though and the candlelight is good for her complexion. 

“Fifteen gold a day,” Elda says. 

I pull a punch from the inside of my sweater and set it down on the counter. 

“That’s sixty. Name’s Tera, I’m an artist by trade,” I say with a smile. 

“Good to meet you, Tera, I’ll show you to your room. Any reason for your stay?” Elda asks as she starts walking. I follow easily. 

“I draw whatever catches my eye and sell it, and I’d rather hit here, Winterhold and Dawnstar before Winter comes,” I explain as we step inside a cozy room. 

“A good plan, though I’d really suggest getting some extra muscle for that. The way from here to Winterhold is filled with all kinds of danger,” Elda says matter-of-factly. “Oh! Stenvar upstairs, the bald fellow, is looking for work. He’s a sell sword.”

That’s probably a smart idea. 

But. My gold. My monies. 

But I probably should… 

Draw first, then figure out this predicament Tera. 

“I’ll think about it. You know if he has a set one time rate?” I ask the older woman as I set my bag down next to my bed, rolling my achy shoulders. 

“Oh I have no clue, dear. Best ask him. Enjoy your stay, tell me if you need anything,” Elda says with a wave of her hand before walking out, shuttling the door behind her. 

I should. Probably do that first. 

I groan and flop onto the comfy bed with warm furs. I don’t wanna be poor and I’ll probably have to feed and water him. I’d need to actually actively make money. 

Fucking. Best get this done now and adult.  _ Hghhh.  _

I roll off the bed with a pout, because I admit to my childish ways, walk out of the room. I make my way up the stairs and into the main dining area, hands hidden by the sleeves of my sweater. 

I look around the crowded eating area and spot the man I’m looking for. Big sword, bald head, nursing a bottle of cold ale. 

I make my way through to him before taking a seat across from him. 

“Stenvar, I presume?” I ask, leaning my chin against my propped up hand. 

Now he doesn’t have the prettiest face around but that is a well groomed, greying beard. Large nose, squared jaw, soul piercing eyes. 

Yeah, he’ll do. 

“Yup. You looking for a sellsword, girl?” He asks. 

“Depends on pricing. How much?” I ask. There’s a jig starting up. 

He takes a sip of his mead. “Five-hundred gold. I assume you’re looking for a bodyguard?” He asks. 

That leaves me with only a hundred something left. 

_ Ugh.  _

“Yup. I’m squishy and I almost got ‘ _ roughed up _ ’ by some bandits between here and Riften. I’m not taking chances with that anymore.” He nods in understanding. My fingers itch for my pen and journal. 

“Well, if you’ve got the coin I’m in. When do you plan on heading out again?” Stenvar asks. 

“Three days, then I’m heading for Winterhold. I’ll probably stay a little longer there if I can manage to get inside the college. Oh! I’m an artist, by the way. Hence the travel. I’m Tera,” I explain. 

“Stenvar the sellsword. Payment?” He asks expectantly. 

I pull multiple coin pouches out of different areas of my clothes, mentally tallying things up. 

“This is all five hundred, feel free to count it if you don’t trust me. A deal then?” I ask, holding out a hand to shake. 

Stenvar slides the money to his side of the table and takes the hand, shaking it. 

“Done.”

Well. At least I’m less likely to die now. Not fully unlikely! Just. Less. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any loud thoughts about Tera? What do you think (or want) to happen next? I’m interested in knowing.


	4. Note to self, no more Sujamma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a Windhelm stay shorter than intended. Winterhold it is!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, and sorry about less Windhelm than Riften, Tera decided it was time to go.

I go to the Grey Quarter first. This city is bigger than the one in game but I still know my way around. Happens when you play a game since age eleven. 

It smells like sewage, the snow is dirty and the buildings in aging disrepair. But still flags and banners of obvious Morrowind origin are flown and hung around, bright and stark against the greys. Reds, yellows, pinks and blues, though faded with age. 

It’s depressing. I draw it from its entrance as it is. I really do need paints. 

A few people sit outside or lean, one elderly dunmer woman puffs from a long pipe. 

_ Windhelm’s “ Grey ” Quarter _ , I caption, saddened. 

I venture deeper, unafraid. Dirty snow crunches and sloshes underfoot. 

I draw what catches my eye, from a scribbled vandalism on a wall declaring “ _ ash and snow _ ” to a woman making an interesting pose. 

“Evening, mind if I draw you? You’re looking particularly dynamic,” I ask in greeting to the redhead. She huffs. 

“Fine. ‘Been watching you draw since you came down here. But you’d better show me how it looks,” She states, words crisp like most Morrowind dialects. British if I had to equate a home accent. 

“I’ll do you one better, I’ll draw a few and let you keep the one you like best. Name’s Tera,” I introduce, holding out an ink stained hand. 

“Vevra Sailan,” The woman, Vevra, says shaking my hand. 

Dunmer eyes are unnerving until you get used to them, now I can only see how the whole face comes together. Almost Japanese features with the long faces and pointed chins, thin eyes and lips. That ignores the high cheekbones similar to the Nords, of course. And the brow bones are very naturally severe looking. 

Not as similar to their game counterparts as the Nords have been so far. 

This woman is very interesting though. Her eyes are smaller than most Dunmer I’ve seen, she has a dimple in her left cheek and her eyebrows are a bit less angry looking.

Also she’s drunk. That’s a thing you can see on anyone no matter the race or the face. 

“Whatever,” She responds, going back to her sitting on the ledge. One leg propped up and the other hanging. A hand loosely holding a mead bottle. All half lit by a torch to the side. 

I get a few different angles, humming  _ the dragonborn comes _ under my breath. 

I show her the finished products. 

“That one,” She says simply, pointing to the one from an angle where almost none of the torchlight is hitting her, just more of an outline. 

I tear it out with practiced careful ease, and hand it over. 

“Thanks, now run off before one of them pickpockets gut you,” Vevra says waving me off. 

Good advice. 

I keep walking until I hit the Cornerclub, specifically New Gnisis Cornerclub. Men and women loiter outside, two with pipes and one couple giggling drunkenly at each other in the shadows. 

The inside is packed, including shady people in corners, a few people singing a merry Morrowind drinking song, one passed out drunk at the counter and a lot of booze. 

Huh. Nice. 

I come up to the counter, sliding into an empty barstool and tucking my scarf under my chin. 

“Evening!” I say in greeting, very aware that I’m the only human in the room. There are, though, some Argonians. Probably snuck in. 

“Evening, what can I do for you?” The bartender asks. And though I recognize his face I can’t remember his name for the life of me. Also noted, his tone is not the nicest around. I get it though, even if it doesn’t help things.

“I heard your drinks are better than the Candlehearth’s. How much for some Sujamma?” I ask, pulling out a bag of coin. It’s worth it, I want some gossip. And a few drawings. Mostly drawings. 

“Thirty gold,” The man says, eyebrows going up a little that I actually know about Morrowind alcohol. 

I made an attempt to play Morrowind, all right? I might’ve gotten bored fast, but I definitely tried. 

“Twenty and I throw in a portrait, I’m an artist by trade,” I state, gesturing to my open journal. 

He rolls his eyes. “Twenty-four. What’s an artist doing in this stinking alley?” He asks. 

“Recording history’s tragedies. The banners are beautifully stark against the grey, by the way.” I hand over the coin and take the alcohol with a half grin. 

“Ah, so one decent human in comparison to a whole city of them. What are you then? Imperial? Breton?” The man asks as I pop open the cork of my drink and am hit with the strong smell instantly. 

_ Oh I am gonna get so drunk.  _

“A person surrounded by many other people who sometimes have pointed ears or are very similar looking to animals. Has anyone ever told you that your face is very symmetrical? That’s a good thing,” I say, sidestepping the question completely. My hand is already getting his head shape down on paper. The half annoyed downturn of his lips. The little furrow of his eyebrows. 

I down some Sujamma.  _ Oh that is straight alcohol bitter as fuck- _

I shoulda brought Stenvar, but I knew he’d scare off my subjects. Eh, I survived Riften drunk, I can handle this. Another swig down the hatch. 

“No, I haven’t,” The bartender says dryly. 

“Name’s Tera, by the way,” I introduce, pausing my art to hold out a hand. 

He takes it and shakes half heartedly. “Ambarys Rendar. This is my club,” Ambarys says in the same tone. 

I go back to drawing. Grey hair pulled up into a tight top ponytail. Sharp chin and sharper red eyes. Beginnings of stubble too. 

You know what’s great? No laws about underage drinking in Skyrim. Alright maybe not great but seventeen is a very respectable age. 

Nevermind. Another swig of  _ oh god so bitter why am I so stupid.  _

There’s no bards in this bar and that is honestly a tragedy. All I have to listen to is drunken singing and loud conversation! 

“So. What’s the word on the street, Ambarys? Tantalizing secrets? Intrigue?” I ask with the same half grin, not looking up from my portrait. 

“Aretino boy is doing the Black Sacrament last I heard, if you want intrigue,” Ambarys says with a scowl, wiping a cup. 

Ah. That. Not touching that with a ten foot pole thank you. Another swig of  _ I can feel my taste buds dying along with my inhibition _ it is. 

Ambarys gives a harsh laugh at my grimace. 

“Too strong, Artist?” He asks. 

“I’ll be honest, mead is more my speed. Booze is booze though,” I explain, making the few finishing touches on the piece before me. Aaand done. 

With a flurrish I sign the paper and write a small ‘ _ Ambarys Rendar, he owns this club _ ’ on the back. 

I hand the paper over and pretend to enjoy the  _ well I can’t feel the taste anymore _ I drink. 

Ah I can already feel the fuzziness beginning. Well, that took much less than black-briar did. 

“I’ll say again, what’s an artist doing in this stinking alley?” Ambarys asks, looking at my drawing. 

“As of current, getting stupid drunk.”

I spend the next hour or so doing just that, but also drawing whatever catches my eye and making small talk with anyone who wants to. Small talk that shifts into knowing much more about people’s lives than they probably would say if they weren’t drunk. 

All of those people have portraits in my journal. 

I’m not nefarious, all right? I just get… curious. And hold my cards close to my chest. 

It’s pitch black out once I leave the tavern, waving off a few people who offer to walk me back to the Inn. I have a dagger under my sweater and drunk me is  _ very _ willing to use it if pressured. 

Once out I’m immediately hit with someone shouting. 

“You like living in this filthy slum, dark elves? Maybe you should go back to Morrowind, where you belong!”

_ On god? _

I walk towards the sound which is coincidentally close to the main way out of the Grey quarter with narrowed eyes. 

Who was the bitch who shouts that stuff? One of the dumbasses who’s at the front gates when the dragonborn shows up. 

In the torchlight I see the source of the racket, stumbling with a bottle of ale in hand and spitting vitriol. 

“Oi! Some people are trying to sleep!” I state scarf up to my nose as I get closer to the man. 

“Maybe they should leave then, huh?  _ You hear that, dark-skinned filth _ ?! Leave!” The man shouts, words slurred. 

Where are guards when you need them? Oh right. Never around. At all. Christ. 

“Go home, you drunk, before I call the guards,” I say with crossed arms, scowling.

The man barks a laugh. “The guards don’t care, girl. Now get out of my face before I make you,” He says. 

_ Oh? _

Let it be said, with the last dredges of my sobriety, that I am not very good at taking intimidation when drunk. 

I sock him in the jaw. It should probably hurt but  _ oh ha he just dropped like a bag of bricks.  _

Wait. 

I blink blearily. 

Sujamma had effects in Morrowind. I remember them. Er, that they exist. 

I nudge the man with the toe of my boot, squinting. 

Yeah he’s out. 

I shrug, because that… probably shouldn’t have been so easy, and stumble my way back to the Inn. He’ll probably be fine. Probably. 

* * *

Brain hurt. 

My eyes are squinted closed as I hear someone knock on my door. 

“Come in,” I call, before putting a pillow on top of my face. 

Sujamma bad. Never again. 

“You look like shit,” a gruff voice offers. Stenvar? Stenvar. 

I lift the pillow and give him an unimpressed look. 

“Thank you for the observation. What do you need, my favorite sellsword?” I ask dryly, pretending my brain isn’t very upset with me. 

“Rolff Stone-Fist is saying someone who looks like you assaulted him last night,” Stenvar says. I look at my bruised right hand knuckles. Oh. That’s why those hurt. 

“If I say he deserved it do I avoid jail time?” I ask. 

“I’ll be honest with you, not really,” Stenvar says almost amused. 

The one time I act out. The  _ one time.  _

“How prepared are you to leave early?” I ask instead of burrowing deeper under my covers. 

This city is wack. There’s always next spring. 

“I’m ready when you’re ready,” The man says with a smirk. “Did you at least pocket his coin?” 

I look at the suspicious bag of coins on my bedside table.

“...we never speak of this again.”

“Of course.”

My face is very hidden by my scarf as we make our way out the gates, all while Stenvar chuckles to himself like an ass. 

Also. Glittery, fresh, white snow? Very pretty. Very not good for brain. I’ll draw it anyways. 

“You’re more fun that I thought you’d be, I’ll give you that,” Stenvar says while we walk away from the Windhelm stables. 

I look over at him from where I’ve just finished counting my suspiciously earned coin. In my defense, I do not remember drunk me taking it. Also, who the fuck just carries around two-hundred and eighty-six coin?

“I’m a bundle of fun, alright? The epitome of youthfulness and entertainment, even,” I snark with a half grin, tucking away my coin in it’s new secret hiding place. 

“Sure. Now what am I supposed to be calling you? Boss? Employer?” 

I grimace. 

“Just Tera, thank you. We’re going to be stuck spending all our time together for a while and being more casual helps prevent us from stabbing each other,” I say simply, fiddling with my scarf. 

The river beside us rushes downhill as we head upward. Luckily today was one of the few days the weather is clear. 

A mill is up ahead. I think I killed someone from there in the Dark Brotherhood once. 

Yikes. 

We walk past the mill and I get a few sketchiest of the people at work and the mill. Stenvar looks menacing. As he should, because I paid him enough to do that. 

“Just a warning, Artist-“ “Tera.” “Last time I went down this road to Winterhold there were trolls,” Stenvar says with his arms crossed, looking around for trouble. “And a fort with necromancers.”

I pause my drawing and look contemplatively at him. 

“How fast can you run with that armor?” I ask. 

He grins. “Faster than you.”

Cruelty from mine own hired help. My heart is breaking. 

“You don’t know that! Sides, if worse comes to worse we lead the trolls to them.”

We meet three frost trolls, two skeletons and their buddy, and one highwayman on the way to Winterhold. Let’s just say I run faster. 

* * *

“I can’t believe that necromancer shot ice at me, and not you,” I huff. 

“Maybe if you picked up less rocks I could’ve stabbed him sooner.”

“Snark? Towards your most innocent and amazing employer? Plague on your crops, Stenvar the Stabby.”

“Be glad to have me, Tera the Terror, that troll wanted you for dinner.”

“I do so enjoy having a meat shield, so there’s that at the very least.”

The few patrons of The Frozen Hearth all stare at us with varying levels of suspicion. All Nords, all blonde or brown haired, all look ready to axe us at any moment. Well, save the innkeep. 

“Two hearty stews, one honeyed mead, and one ale. Anything else I can do for the two of ya’?” The man asks. Blonde like the rest, blue eyes like ice, and stouter than some of the others about. Still has the cheekbones, though. 

“Gossip would be nice, Mr…?” I trail off, eyes curled with friendliness and lips pulled in an open smile. 

Alright. So maybe I’m good at this sort of game. I can’t help how much fun it is, goddamnit. 

“Just Dagur, ma’am,” The man, Dagur, states. I hold out a hand for him to shake. 

Blegh, it’s always weird having adults say ma’am to you. 

“Tera the Artist, or Terror in my companion’s words,” I shake his hand firmly. Callous the way a sword leaves. Interesting. 

“Well met. Just passing through for the college, I suppose?” Dagur asks. 

More eyes with more heat. Touchy touchy subject. 

“In part. I go about selling and making illustrations, as you can likely guess. Whatever beauty Winterhold hides is what I seek. The ruins are as haunting as they are ensnaring.”

Approval in that nod of his, a few heads finally focused on their drinks. Good. 

Stenvar’s got a look on his face. 

“A sad thing, but it’s good some see the pretty bits in tragedy, I suppose,” Dagur states. “I’m a holler away, if you need me.”

He walks away back to his bar and starts wiping it again, though the thing is already spotless. 

The comfort in his body at the motions means it’s familiar. Habit, rather than an actual need. 

So interesting!

“Tera the Silvertongue, is more apt,” Stenvar says after uncorking his ale and downing some. 

I take a nice bite of my stew. Ah! It has garlic in it! Whoop!

“Hilarious, Stenvar Goldeye. You spotted every coin pouch in the room when we walked in,” I say with wry mirth, starting a sketch of Dagur and keeping an interested eye on the elven mage in the corner. He’s shovelling mouthfuls of stew in his mouth between murmuring, hunched over what's likely magic notes. 

Are those old piercing holes in Dagur’s ears? I hum happily as I draw. 

“Well said.” Stenvar takes a bite of his own stew. “You aren’t just an artist, are you?”

Psh. Me? Be nefarious? I’m the most unassuming, honest looking person you’ll meet!

Side note, never trust honest looking people. They lie the best. 

“Well, I stole fish once. That would make me a thief  _ and _ an artist. Scholar too, maybe,” I offer contemplatively, before sipping my mead. 

“Whatever you say. Just leave me out of any plots unless there’s gold involved.”

I spot a girl and boy walking towards our table and raise an eyebrow. 

The girl’s got the look of Dagur, same blonde hair and nose. Her eyes are a type of brown that borders the dark abyss, though. More obsidian than chocolate. 

The boy, though, has got close cut red hair and hazel green eyes,  _ and _ a mean look about him. He’s tall for his age, roughly thirteen if my eyes are right, and looking like he’s getting muscle to match. 

“Evening, what brings you youths to this table of elders? Wisdom, perhaps?” 

Stenvar snorts. 

“You’re not much older than us!” The boy says first, eyes narrowed and frowning. 

“What do you mean? I’m ancient! And poor Stenvar here is practically dust,” I say mournfully, slumping in my chair. 

“Harsh words from a milk drinker,” Stenvar says without looking up from his food. 

“Harsher from a man with a bad hip. Maybe if you drank more milk you could run faster.”

“ _ Anyways, _ ” The boy butts in before Stenvar and I can really get going. “You do art, right? I want a portrait!” 

“Me too,” The girl says firmly. 

I nod simply. “Five gold each, oh fair patrons. Discounts for the youth, as that time is so fleeting.”

“Are you sure you don’t belong in that Bard’s college?” Stenvar asks dryly. 

“I’m not the one who’s stuck stabbing things for a seventeen-year-old,” I say nonchalantly, accepting my payment without looking up at the man. 

“Another point to you, Silvertongue,” Stenvar says with a huff. 

“Pull up a seat, youths, get into the position you’d like,” I tell the kids, before taking a few more bites of my stew. 

The kids do so, the girl flattening her hair on the top of her head and the boy doing something he probably thinks looks regal but fails miserably. 

Adorable. 

“All right, girly first,” I state. The boy almost complains but I look distinctly unimpressed at him and he shuts his mouth. 

I turn my page away from Dagur for now, and start on the girl. “Name’s Tera, kid, who are you?” 

“Eirid, my Ma and Pa own this Inn!” Eirid tells me, settling into a more comfortable position now that I’m talking to her. 

“Do they now? That means it’ll be yours one day, doesn’t it?” I ask, putting her nose onto the paper with too much casual ease. It’s a Daedra. There’s no other reason. 

“Yeah. Ma says her Pa’s family have had this inn for tons of years, so I get to have it next,” Eirid says. From her mother’s family, huh? Now where does that leave Dagur. 

Oh I’ve stumbled onto an interesting little puzzle haven’t I?

“Well if you can make stew anything like your parents I’ll keep coming till I’m dust like my companion, here.”

Small curl of the lips, surety in her shoulders, half creaseanted eyes. Hair with artful flyaways and a brazier making a behind lightsource. 

Lovely. 

Here’s to hoping I stick around Winterhold longer than Windhelm. Ignoring the cold and danger, it is actually quite nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo, uh, what characters do you wanna see here??


	5. College is Important unless it’s Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s Thalmor and they like to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took a while. I’m on break until at least April 15th (my birthday >:[ ) and I figure I might as well write. Also, be ready for some... canon divergence, next chapter :)

Winterhold does not look like it’s game counterpart. 

It makes sense that it isn’t the ruins of a once great and large city in game, that probably would take time and money the game developers hadn’t had. 

But here it is. 

The Jarl’s longhouse is made of cold and unforgiving ancient stone, though it’s clearly gone into some disrepair in places. The Frozen Hearth has the same look to it, old and sure. What few houses left are like that, but the closer you get to the cliff the more of a clear picture it makes. 

Half fallen homes and businesses, an old market left forgotten at the edge, and a few sunbleached Morrowind banners too high up to be taken down. 

Tragedy. That was the right word to describe the great collapse. Who had lived in these homes? Who had spent their lives working in these businesses? How many people lost to the elements?

My journal is full, now. 

I walk back to the village proper and to the general store. The woman who runs it must have at least one journal, hopefully with nice paper?

I hope for too much in a backwater end of an already backwater country and backwater universe. No offense! I just call it how I see it, Divines and Co. 

“You know you don’t have to follow me,” I say, looking back at a bored looking Stenvar. 

“You’re the most entertaining thing here, Terror,” Stenvar offers simply, rolling one of his shoulders. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Stabby. Do you need anything from the general store while we’re here?” I ask, opening the door for him. 

“Nothing I can’t buy with my own coin, Terror,” The older man waves me inside before him, shutting the worn wood door behind us. 

The woman behind the counter perks up at the sight of us. 

“Hello! Feel free to browse, and tell me if you need anything,” She offers in that thicker Nord accent more common the farther up you go. 

“I’m actually interested in a blank journal, if you have any. Maybe Ink too if it’s feasible,” I state, coming up to the counter while Stenvar does a good job of looking like a menacing, if bored, shadow. 

“You’re lucky, the college actually keeps me well stocked in those. Lots of pilgrimaging mages,” The woman says, tired face brightening. Button nose, blue eyes like sapphires, the beginnings of frown wrinkles. 

She’s not a great beauty, but few are, and that’s okay. I haven’t found a single person with no good traits yet. 

“How much for two journals and inkwells?” I ask, itching to sketch the woman before me, the potion bottles on top of a stack of books, maybe the sunlight washing one side of the room in pale light. 

“Twenty-four septims,” The woman says simply, going and grabbing the items from behind her, in a chest. 

The wish to draw is compulsive in nature, I note. 

Someone wants me doing this. Someone is using me, rather. 

I take the wares and hand over the coin with a smile, before leaving the store. 

My pen twirls in my fingers. 

I sigh. 

Oh fuck it, I’ll be dead by the year’s end anyways, no point in giving a shit now. 

I open the actually nice journal and sketch out the entrance to the college, and the high elf woman guarding it. 

“Try to look less stabby when we walk up there, alright?” I ask Stenvar, smirking. 

“If any of them shoots fire at me, I’m cutting throats,” Stenvar replies gruffly, hands on his hips as he observes the entrance before us. 

“Oh do so freely, just watch that hip of yours,” I say simply, finishing the drawing with a flourish and patting his shoulder. 

Stenvar grumbles something unflattering and the bickering starts as we start up towards the entrance. 

“I’m not the one who’s fleeing Windhelm.”

“No, you’re an  _ accomplice  _ in my fleeing Windhelm. I’m sure the guards will care for the difference.”

“Oh, glad to leave you next time,  _ Boss _ .”

“Blegh, never say that to me again. Never. Old men calling me boss will only end in murder.”

“For who?”

I cut off my next words when I note the woman now before us. Very Tall™. If I were less comfortable with my average height I would be intimidated. For now I just want to sketch that jaw. 

Pointed chin, pointed features like most elves, but golden skin and golden coloring. Cheekbones that could cut marble and amber eyes like thick honey. 

Normal college ware, though, but it’s well cared for. The green has barely faded at all. 

“Morning! I was hoping to sketch this beautiful college of yours. I’m a traveling artist, name’s Tera,” I greet, holding out a hand. 

The woman takes it, careful and ready to fry me. 

“Most artists do not have bodyguards,” She states dryly. “I am Faralda. I have been tasked with keeping unwelcome visitors out of the college.”

Ugh, I hope she doesn’t make me try and do magic. Magic makes people want to kill you more. 

“Most artists don’t wander around countries having a simultaneous civil war  _ and _ dragon crisis!” I state cheerfully, half grinning. 

Faralda sighs, posture becoming less tense. 

“I’m sorry for the rudeness, there have been… tensions, as of late, with the nord locals. I don’t think I can stop a fellow knowledge seeker, even from a different cloth,” Faralda states, frowning. 

Oh. Well that was easy. 

“So long as you promise to be chaperoned and avoid antagonizing our members, you may gain entrance.”

Knew there was a catch. Well, no Middian for me. As long as I get to see all the fancy glowy things, though. 

“Deal. Lead the way, fair mage,” I state. 

Faralda doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a close thing. Stenvar  _ does  _ roll his eyes. I stick my tongue out at him and pretend I don’t immediately regret doing it in this cold of weather. 

The things we do for honor. 

The college is much larger than you would assume from its game counterpart. Understandable, considering Winterhold used to be a bustling, icy hub of magic users before the Great Collapse. 

Towers pierce the sky in varying lengths, and you can feel the magic in the air. It smells like ozone and smoke, like iron aftertaste on the tip of the tongue. 

I look awestruck, don’t I? Yup. Definitely awestruck. That giddy feeling of “ _ holy shit the architecture and the history behind these rough, stone cold walls _ ” in my chest. 

I’m sketching already, focusing on the statue in the center of the courtyard first. 

“Who is this statue of?” I ask, not looking at Faralda. What a lovely lovely pose!

“Archmage Shalidor, or Archmagus as some of the Nords call him. Likely the most powerful mage of the First Era,” Faralda explains, sounding half interested. 

Archmagus Shalidor is written on the back of the picture. 

I set my gaze on the walls now. Stenvar barely stifles a long suffering sigh. 

“Don’t sass me Goldeye I know where you sleep.”

“I’m so scared.”

“Good,  _ fenhedis lasa _ .”

“ _ Jeg kan også snakke andre språk _ .  _ Melk drikker _ .”

“You were focused on illustration, yes?” Faralda cuts in. 

“Oh, right. A point to you, Goldeye.”

* * *

Good news, the college has watercolors for sale!

Bad news, a set costs a hundred gold. 

Good news, I’ll sell my soul for a good set of paints!

Bad news, I’ve encountered the Thalmor. 

“And what business do  _ you _ have at the college?” The man sneers, voice nasally with false superiority that hides insecurity many layers beneath. 

Stenvar’s hand is on his big sword. I gently tap him twice as I pass him, hidden by my sweater sleeves, and give the Thalmor a demure look. 

Enemies are best not realizing that they are your enemies. They never expect the knife from an ally, and never think to knife a friend. 

“Tera the Artist, at your service. I’m here to capture the college on paper. And you are?” I ask, half bowing in greeting. Something makes me think Thalmor don’t do handshakes. 

Touching gross lesser races? In this house?  _ Never.  _

“Thalmor Ancano of the Aldmeri Dominion,” He introduces with a small sneer. Not as big as it was when he was looking at Stenvar, though. 

… where did Faralda go?

Probably off doing her own thing now that she has an excuse to leave the gate. Fair enough. 

Also, Stenvar isn’t about to stab the man anymore! At least not visibly. Yet. 

He’s still looming like a protective wall with a personal vendetta, though. I don’t blame him.  _ Thalmor _ .

“What does an artist need of the college? Are you being commissioned for some member’s research journals?” Ancano digs, hands clasped behind his back. 

“No, though the money would be lovely. I’m illustrating anything that catches my fancy in my travels to be sold. The College is a gorgeous thing.” He’s relaxing slowly, I’m a non-threat to his evil Thalmor plans. 

His eyes snap to Stenvar though, the contrasting very threatening nord man who’s as tall as him. 

“And what does a wandering artist have need of a hired brute for?” He asks, and I disguise another few hopefully pacifying pats to Stenvar with a laugh. 

“Old Stenvar here makes sure I don’t get murdered, considering how dangerous the roads are these days. Civil wars and dragons are never a good mix, I’ve learned,” I explain, ever open and smiley. “Not all of us have been gifted with magical skill, I’m afraid.”

He half preens at the offhand remark, probably left without the praise he “deserves” for so long. Stenvar, thankfully, doesn’t break the game. I lucked out on getting a Nord with some skill in observation past thickheaded honor. 

“Of course. I must say, you’ve been the most civil conversation I’ve had since coming to the icy establishment,” Ancano says, finally easing up a little. 

Got him. 

If only he weren’t doomed to death in a month or so, or whenever the Dragonborn shows up. An in with the Thalmor would’ve been nice. 

…

I’m not scheming. I never scheme. I’m a perfectly respectable artist who does perfectly respectable artist things. 

Let’s not press him too soon, though, loneliness doesn’t break years of being taught to be on guard at all times. I’m a Breton looking human with no ties to his organization. 

“I’m glad to be of service! Oh, would you mind showing me around? I don’t doubt that you have a good eye on you for detail and beauty,” I ask, making a show of looking hopeful. 

He battles with himself internally, if only for a moment. Then, he hurumphs. 

“Fine, I doubt you could find a better pair of eyes on this fine…  _ campus _ . I cannot be taken from my duties too long, though, I am a very important advisor to the Archmage.”

Hook, line, and sinker. 

“Oh! Thank you for sparing me your time then, Serah. I know it’s bold of me to ask, but what sort of things do you advise him on?” I ask, already sketching his profile in my sketchbook as we start walking, eyebrows lifted in awe. 

Stenvar makes a noise in his throat that declares his unhappiness, but covers it with a clearing of his throat. 

Ancano walks in front of us, not facing us. So I give Stenvar an apologetic look. 

He looks unimpressed, but keeps walking nonetheless. 

Man I lucked out when I found him. I’m never giving him back to the dragonborn, she can take him from my cold dead hands. 

Besides, she’s got Lydia, let me have  _ my _ companion. 

Ancano prattles about this and that, pointing out things he finds interesting and I dutifully draw them. I’m also happy to write anything he says of interest on the back of his page. 

_ Resentful of his posting. Resentful of the Archmage’s lack of interest. Graduated top of class in training (suspected, not overtly revealed). On track for upper level management if he had a better attitude probably. Lonely. Bad ideas about composition. Long eyelashes.  _

Just for example. 

I don’t have a problem!

I have a problem. I’ll send anything of interest to Brynjolf the second I have it, because this is entirely too fun. I wasn’t this conniving before! I think it’s the Daedra.

Well mostly the Daedra. Partially the Daedra. 

I don’t let my annoyance show on my face. I do not. 

“So you’re from the Summerset Isles, right?” I ask Ancano while I sketch an aerial view of the courtyard from atop one of the towers. 

“That is correct.” His body language is closing off almost immediately. 

“It’s beautiful there, right? I’m from the south myself, so I know what it is to miss the warmth,” I say, smiling softly. 

He relaxes a bit. Good. 

“I admit that I miss the beaches. This tundra is not the same,” He says with half disgust. 

I add a note.  _ Homesick.  _

“I wish I could go back, but I’m called to wander like you’re called to your cause. It’s nice to reminisce, though,” I say, blocking any real grief because there’s no place for that now. I’m alive, I’m in a place I know, and that’s what matters. 

At least it wasn’t Attack on Titan. 

He analyzes me while I pretend I’m not paying attention, very aware that if he tries to set me on fire Stenvar is very very ready and willing to throw him off the tower. I know that because I can see him thinking it. 

Bless the man for making it this far honestly, the Thalmor loves to talk about himself and mix in rude things about Nords in every sentence. 

Oh right. New note that’s probably a given.  Racist  _fucking_ idiot. 

If I can’t get anything useful out of this I’m gonna kill him myself honestly, storyline be damned. 

“Well, I believe that’s all I need for the day,” I hum, closing my journal and putting my pen in my ear. “It was lovely speaking with you, Thalmor Ancano. If you excuse me, I’ve got a friend I need to reconnect with.”

I unceremoniously leave before he can ask questions because I am very very tired of his voice at this point. 

Now to find someone who counts as an friend I need to reconnect with. 

“How you can stand to speak with so much silver in your mouth puts me in awe,” Stenvar says, grimacing. 

“The Thalmor are a useful evil, and he’ll never expect me to send a knife through his throat if it comes to it,” I state quietly, wary of said man overhearing us after all that work. 

“You’re something different entirely, Terror. You’re with the Guild in Riften, aren’t you?” 

I shrug. “Ah, sort of? I sold them information once.”

And essentially invited them to buy more if they wanted it. 

I’ve got no more excuses at this point I’m just vibing. 

“As long as there’s gold in it for me, Terror.”

“Wouldn’t dream of anything otherwise, Stabby.”


	6. Winterhold to Dawnstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a boat! And Tera starts a quest for once!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took shorter than the last one and I am content in that. Please wash your hands, and don’t be stupid. Love you guys :)

“You want _ what _?”

Enthir, a black market fence, Altmer, and mage shrugs. “Brynjolf said he wanted to check if you knew anything.”

I rub my face, sitting on my fur covered bed wishing I was asleep again. It’s nice to find a new person to sketch out, don’t get me wrong, but it was sleep time. I was having sleep time. 

“That man overestimates how well travelled I am- hand me my journal,” I state with a long suffering tone, gesturing to the book on the nightstand. The man does so, and I take a moment to take in his features. 

Ever tall, as the Altmer are prone to be, but his features are closer to wood elf than your run of the mill Falmer. At least in face. The black sclera are fairly common in elves, but the shape of his eyes themselves are woodelf-like. 

No sketching. Stop brain. Stop. 

I take the journal and start flipping. That redhead is very very lucky I’ve been playing this game since age eleven. Very, _ very _ lucky. 

I scrawl “_ Delphine _” at the top of the page, and sigh deeply. 

“I assume this is for the dragonborn?” I ask the Altmer. 

“And how would you know that?” Enthir shoots back, eyebrow lifted. 

“She’s a Innkeeper in the quiet hamlet of Riverwood. He has no reason to take notice of her. The dragonborn, however,” I say, starting my bullet points with _ Blade _. “Has many reasons.”

Christ, how fast is this woman working through the main quest?

Smart of her to get info about Delphine before she trusts her. I’m still upset at the woman for Paarthurnax. 

_ Blade, under deep cover hiding from the Thalmor, fought in the Great War, paranoid. Useful, serves the blades before the dragonborn. Wants the dragons dead. _ _ All _ _ of the dragons. Slow to trust. Likely will look for one Esbeorn the Scholar. _

That’s good enough, right? 

Right. 

“How much is he paying me for this?” I ask before I hand the hidden paper to him. 

“The dragonborn is offering a hundred.”

I tsk. 

“This woman is worth at least three hundred fifty, and that’s me being generous because it’s a dragonborn asking.” I could go to the Thalmor and get a thousand at least just for her location, no sweat. 

Curse my being chaotic good, if only I had looser morals. 

Rather if only the Thalmor weren’t such assholes. I’ll keep information from them out of spite at this point. 

The Altmer has narrowed eyes. 

“I’ll return the message.” And then he’s gone. 

Well. I’ll probably have gold by tomorrow or have a barter battle with Brynjolf. Either way something will happen. 

Stenvar walks in and tosses a sweetroll at me. 

“I want a cut of that.”

I snort, and it is not attractive. 

“Sure sure, just keep the sweets coming, Stabby.”

I flop back flat on the bed and proceed to eat the sweetroll, intending on dealing with the world at a later time. 

* * *

I’m in the middle of sketching the very very large Arcanaeum when Enthir returns, looking deceptively at ease. 

“She agrees.”

I hum, before gesturing for him to hand the money to Stenvar, wary of unseen eyes. “I’m glad for your patronage, Serah! Here’s the art!” I state, handing him the notes on Delphine sandwiched between two front and back drawings. It’s of botany. Nirnroot, elves ear and nightshade. 

The notes aren’t the most intensive things, but they’re good enough. The Dragonborn only needs to know that she can trust the woman for the time being. 

Stenvar easily takes the four pouches of gold and starts counting them for me, likely going to take whatever part he’s decided he’d like. 

I don’t mind, I should be paying him a fixed weekly rate and I doubt he’ll take an unreasonable amount. 

“I’m glad to, Silvertongue, now if you excuse me.” Enthir walks off again and I give Stenvar a look. 

“This is your fault.”

“You’re the one with so much silver in her mouth.”

“You should’ve become an accountant, Goldeye, you’d be around what gives you joy in life.”

“You should’ve became a portrait maker in the capital, you could’ve gossiped your way to royalty.”

“And I’d have made you count all my _ legally obtained _ gold.”

“Point to me.”

“Oh shut up.”

“_ Keep it down over there! _” The gruff voice of the librarian makes its way to us past shelves and shelves of books. 

“Apologies!” I reply, glaring at Stenvar. 

“How do you feel about finding someone with a boat and getting to Dawnstar that way? We’ll have to loop back around the mountains to get there by road and, well, you know how Windhelm feels about us now,” I ask Stenvar, voice lower now. 

Stenvar grunts from where he’s counting. “Sounds well and good if you can find someone in this village who can use a boat.”

I tap my pen to my chin, thinking while I stare at the rows upon rows of magical, alchemical, and enchanting knowledge before me. 

“We can ask when we get back to the inn,” I say, before drawing Stenvar counting. 

Such a pity about his big nose, he still strikes a nice figure though. A nice, bald figure. 

“Whatever you say, Terror. Make sure whoever it is knows what they’re doing though. Those arctic waters aren’t a game,” Stenvar says gruffly. 

I wave my hand. “Yes yes, Skyrim is a beast to behold for all it’s beautiful. Very deadly. Very cold. Not to be taken lightly,” I offer with faux dread, half grinning. 

“Hilarious. I take it back, you should be a jester.”

“And lose my head for some fat tyrant? Where’s the fun in that?”

Speaking of Jesters, if I see that scary fucker on the side of the road I avert eye contact. 

I am _ not _ going near him. No deranged psychopaths for me, thank you very much. 

So I finish up my set of illustrations for The Arcanaeum and head back down into Winterhold proper, Stenvar trailing behind me ever like a large, dangerously curious cat. 

I knock snow off my shoes at the door of the Inn, happy to be rid of the cold once I’m smacked with the warm air. I didn’t realize I was shivering before then. 

I step inside, rubbing my gloves hands together and making room for Stenvar to step inside as well. 

“Dagur?” I ask, looking at the bored Innkeep. Said nord looks up from where he’d been idly wiping the counter and perks up at the sight of us. Definitely bored, then. 

“Ah, What was it you need, Miss Tera?” He asks, voice ever thick with that nord accent common this far up. 

“I was wondering if you knew anyone in town who has a boat?” I ask, watching his face lighten. 

Oh ho ho, internal suspicions are being confirmed. I don’t think this man was born this far north, and I’m sure those piercings aren’t in for a reason. 

“Well, I have one. What are you needing it for?” He asks, leaned up against his counter. 

“We’re looking for someone to get us to Dawnstar. The road goes way out of the way and a boat seems simpler,” I explain. 

The man nods. “Makes sense, you’re lucky you came around the time you have, with winter coming soon the ice sheets will thicken again. How much are you offering for the ride?” 

“Seventy-five gold sound like enough?” I ask. 

The man taps his chin. “Sounds well enough to me. It’ll take about half a day's ride, so it’d be best if we left in the morning.”

Well. That was easier than I thought it’d be. 

“That’s wonderful! Do you think we could go tomorrow?” I ask. 

“I’ll ask my wife, but I bet it’d be fine enough. Don’t believe the Inn will be needing me for a day.”

And so that’s how I got myself on a boat to Dawnstar with Stenvar and a probably ex-pirate. 

I could go into detail about what we talked about or how many glaciers and cliffs I drew, but that’s boring. I would know, _ because it was boring _. 

Lots of ice, lots of water, lots of horkers, and a lack of anything that wanted to eat us unless you count the wolves on the shore playing. _ Playing, I tell you. _

Which was adorable, don’t get me wrong, but two months of adrenaline rush after adrenaline rush can fuck you up. 

By midday, when the ice was especially blinding, we made it to Dawnstar. 

Let’s get one thing straight. 

There are three hubs of sea trade in Skyrim, in this order. Solitude, thanks to its ties with the East Empire Trading Company and better weather, Windhelm, being one of the oldest cities of man in Skyrim with easy access to Morrowind, and Dawnstar. The little in between port for when you need to get to one of the two farther away from you. 

Riften, of course, has it’s own place as an internal trading hub right next to Whiterun, but neither have ocean access, limiting them to mostly internal trade. 

Dawnstar is not some old rich city, but it is a port in its own right. There is no old stone immediately evident when you step onto it’s docks, but it is by no means tiny. Wood structures cover where they can find flat land among the rocky shoreline, thatched roofs and snow frequent. 

Two ships are in it’s tiny bay, men loitering on the docks probably headed for Solitude or Windhelm next. 

I’m drawing before I’m aware that my pen is moving, taking in everything with an uncanny eye for detail.

“Inn first, Terror,” Stenvar says with a sigh, pulling me along by the back of my bag. 

If this is how I react to an overgrown fishing village I highly doubt my reaction to Solitude will be better. 

We wander onward, myself being half dragged while I take everything in with sharp eyes. 

People wander about, doing their jobs or taking a stroll. All have bags under their eyes and a tiredness to their gait. 

_ I could fix that for them _. 

Oh hell no, I’d have to make Stenvar my tank doing all the work while the priest stands to the side doing priest things and I pretend I know what I’m doing. 

Well, I do know what I’m doing in that case. Foggily. I don’t really do the Dawnstar no nightmare quest often. I honestly can’t remember who the enemies you fight inside the tower are. Maybe the cultists? Was it Boethia who was the prince of nightmares?

Wait, no that’s the “I murder therefore I am” one. 

I’m unceremoniously pulled through the door of the Windpeak Inn and I spot the priest. 

Oh, he’s a Dark Elf. Which makes sense now remembering, but my mental image was of a Khajiit for some reason. 

Should I meddle?

… I’d get to draw the library in the tower. And a Daedric prince’s chosen image. 

Well, I’ve made it this far. 

I stride to the counter on my own, Stenvar trailing behind me while I pull out however many gold I’ll need. 

The innkeep doesn’t notice me, looking deep in thought, until I’m right in front of him. He startles a little, then stifles a sigh. 

“I’m sorry, my mind was somewhere else. Do you need a room? Drink?” He asks, exhausted looking. “Don’t worry, the nightmares don’t seem to be affecting travelers.”

“Nightmares?” I ask, setting a pouch of sixty gold on the table. “There’s sixty. That’s enough for two rooms for two nights, right?”

The man nods, not nothing to even count the money before putting it behind the counter. 

“The whole town is being plagued by nightmares. It’s been happening for at least a month now. The Priest of Mara over there is looking into it, as far as I know,” The man says, rubbing his eyes. “Name’s Thoring, if you care. There’s two empty rooms to the side, on your left.”

I blink. 

Well this is clearly a big problem. 

Ugh, I’m morally obligated now, aren’t I?

The dragonborn will get to it… eventually. Maybe. 

I sigh, closing my eyes. I then turn and walk up to the priest. 

I better get money for this. I'm squishy and easily murdered. 

“I hear there’s a nightmare problem?” I ask, sealing my coffin. 

“Yes,” The man looks around carefully, the Inn only currently populated with the Innkeep and the lady bard with lots of braids hanging with her hair. He then speaks further in a far quieter tone. “I fear though, that it is not a simple matter.”

“Oh?” I push forward, going over my will internally. Meaning I just have Stenvar loot my corpse and do with my items what he will. 

Bleak. 

“These nightmares are the work of a Daedric lord by the name of Vaermina, prince of dreams.” Stenvar makes a noise that declares his feelings on this matter. I wince in agreement. “I believe Vaermina is taking the memories of these people and thus leaving nightmares behind.”

“And you need help fixing it?” I ask. The dark elf man nods. He has sad eyes, now that I look. All red and sad and mourning. Fair enough considering he was one of those cultists before. 

“Yes,” He says, exhaling the word like a plea. 

I turn and look at Stenvar, who will likely be doing all the work. 

He’s grimacing, but nods. “You’re the boss.”

“I’m the idiot seventeen-year-old who’s not really worth fighting Daedric forces for. Are you certain?” I ask, purposefully downing myself. 

His resolve solidifies. “You think I speak to hear myself speak? _ You’re the boss _.”

I give him a decidedly unimpressed look, but turn back to… what’s his face and nod, holding out a hand. 

He takes it, shaking it. “My name is Tera, I’m an artist by trade. This is my hired muscle Stenvar, he’ll likely be doing lots of the stabbing.”

“Mara’s blessings, Tera, Stenvar. I am Erandur. We should make haste now,” Erandur, the priest, states. 

“Let us put down our packs quickly and we’ll head out,” I tell the man, walking towards our rooms and dropping my pack by the bed I chose. 

I quickly check to make sure my elven dagger is still in my boot, before grabbing the extra one in my bag to shove in the other. 

I carry along with me my pen and journal, as always, tucking it in the waistband of my pants under my sweater. 

Well. To death!

Wait shit make sure Stenvar grabbed the health potions-

* * *

There were trolls outside the tower, _ temple _ thing. Nightcaller Temple. It looks like your average Nordic fortress, all cold stone and squares and a boring tower. 

Stenvar goes in to cleave the first frost troll’s head from its shoulder from the start, Erandur goes at the second with an orcish mace and I gladly stay to the side, dagger in hand while I play cat and mouse with the third. 

“That’s a lovely third eye you have!” I state, panic in my throat as I roll out of the way of a swiping hit. My cloak saves my sweater from a cold soaking but I’m just dodging again in the next second so I can’t really appreciate it. 

I’m not built for this. _ I have heartburn _. 

I spot Erandur having a few issues so I get closer to him, watching the troll get ready to make another lunge. 

“I take it back, your eyes are _ ugly _,” I declare, then squeak when the troll comes running at me, jumping out of the way and hearing it collide with another very large creature. 

Stenvar has a war cry and I get to watch him kebab the sprawled out trolls. 

I let my head drop into the snow, panting and pumping my fist into the air. 

“_ Go team _.” 

My hand drops back to earth with me. 

Oh, the clouds look nice today. Very… fluffy. Poof. 

“Up you go, Terror,” Stenvar says, grabbing my hands and hoisting me up. I’m gonna regret this in the morning, I should’ve had booze before this idiocy. 

“What if I was content being one with the snow, Stabby?” I ask, brushing snow off my hair and readjusting my scarf. 

“You could always flop back down and wait for the wolves,” Stenvar says, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“I _ could _, but now I’m up. Tell me, how does your hip feel after that skewering?” 

“Better than your legs will by morning.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll _ have _ legs by morning.”

“Ah, excuse me?” Erandur interrupts, having opened the door of the temple. 

I blink. “Oh, right. Onward, I suppose.”

And so we step into the temple of nightmares, something something ominous statement. Spooky noises. 

Onward indeed. 


	7. Temple of Nightmares? (not as unlikely as you think!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tera, Stenvar and Erandur traverse the evil Daedra dream temple, or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week? Terrifying.
> 
> Also, thank you all dearly for the comments, kudos, bookmarks and uh *checks hand* subscriptions you’ve thrown at me! You may think I don’t know what you’ve done, but I do.
> 
> I’m always watching. Always. :D
> 
> Sorry if I didn’t reply to a comment. Usually when that happens it’s because my brain has decided “no :)” and I, an idiot, listen to my brain.
> 
> Onward with the chapter!

We step inside Temple Nightcaller, and the dust I see just stepping inside almost sets off my allergies. 

I tug my scarf up quickly and tighten it around my face, eyes likely going to get itchy soon. 

Stenvar gives me a questioning look. 

“Allergies,” I offer, shrugging. He nods. 

Then, I fully take in the room. 

Benches tossed over, candle stands strewn about, a podium and the centerpiece. 

The story goes that orcs invaded the temple when the priests were discovered as followers of the Daedric being plaguing them with nightmares, not unlike the poor people of Dawnstar. So it makes sense that they knocked some shit over. 

The miasma, a spell to knock everyone in the temple out, clearly started when the orcs were farther down though. As shown by the lack of orcs. 

An engraving of Vaermina as tall as the ceiling. I whip my journal and pen out quickly, eyes taking in the details while my hands open to the last page I was drawing. 

I take in the details and begin sketching it out while Erandur pretends he isn't reliving painful memories. 

“Are you ready to fight some half dead orcs and cultists?” I ask Stenvar quietly, half joking. 

“Are you?” He shoots back. 

“Oh definitely. The plan is to have you keep the center of attention while I sneak around,” I say, copying down the weird ass engraving with glee. 

“Of course.”

Erandur opens the entrance by shooting fire at the engraving, which is very metal of him, and so we enter the beast of a building. 

“That is the inner sanctum, and the center of all this is the skull of corruption,” Erandur says, quietly. “We must remove it to remove the nightmares plaguing the people of Dawnstar.”

God mental snapshots Tera, mental snapshots. 

“Quickly, we must make our way forward and end this.”

So we start walking, and then we spot one, two sleeping orcs, and two, a big blue barrier fed by a soul gem on the other side. 

Oh god am I gonna have to kill people?

This… isn’t cash money. 

Stenvar readies his sword unflinchingly. 

I stop them both. “Are you sure they’re too far gone to save?” I ask Erandur. 

Erandur grimaces. “It’s been forty years since they were laid asleep. If there is anything sane left in them, it is not what they will listen to at the sight of us.”

I frown deeply, then gesture for them to stay back. 

I’m the softest looking of all of us, it’s better I try and they’re too far gone than not and they’re still sane. 

God I’m a wuss. 

I step quietly towards the sleeping orcs. They have only fur armor and iron blades, so if anything goes wrong I _ can _ just stab them. 

Old yellow warpaint is crusted on the closest one’s face, still there despite four decades.

Plan of action?

… poke him. 

I very gently tap the man on the shoulder, ready to sprint at any moment. 

“Sir?” I ask, quietly, softly, watching his eyes slowly open. 

He spots me and he stiffens, quickly moving to get up. 

“I found you in this temple, are you alright?” I ask, calculating how fast I can jump away.

I watch for the clarity in his eyes-

Nope. Wide pupils. A sign of brain damage and/or fear. Probably both. Also might be a sign of orc berserk so that’s not good. 

His greatsword almost gets me in a shoulder. 

I quickly jump back, away from him and his awakening companion, waving for Stenvar and Erandur to move in. 

Well, glad I tried. 

I watch impassionately as Stenvar runs one of them clean through and Erandur gives the other a mace to the face. Lovely. 

“Damn it, the priests must have activated this barrier when the miasma was released,” Erandur says, looking at said barrier while I pat the bodies down for gold. 

Well, they died good deaths in Malacath’s eyes. In the heat of battle. Good for them. 

I toss Stenvar ten gold and keep ten for myself. 

“How do we get around?” I ask Erandur. 

“There might be a way to bypass the barrier… but I must check the library to check that it can be done,” The priest states, trailing off. 

“Awfully knowledgeable for a random Priest of Mara,” I state, tapping the solid barrier and noting the way it makes my finger tingle. Huh. Wonder whose soul is powering it. 

“I suppose there’s no point in concealing the truth any longer. I was a priest of Vaermina.”

“What a surprise,” Stenvar says from where he’s standing. 

“You could’ve opened with that you know,” I say, turning away from the barrier to him. 

“Yes, you’re right, I should have. I just didn’t know how to say it,” Erandur says, frowning. “I fled the temple and left my brothers and sisters to die. I’ve spent years seeking redemption from Lady Mara, but I will run from this no longer.”

Well that doesn’t sound like he practiced it in the mirror at all. 

“I still have my key to the library, let’s move,” Erandur finishes. 

“Gladly. Further into the depths!” I say with a half grin, pointedly ignoring the corpses and towards the library. 

* * *

Eight more corpses, a book on a potion called Dreamstride, and access to a laboratory later, and someone has to take the potion. 

“I’ll do it,” Stenvar says, and I give him a Look ™. 

“No, you may not. That’s as your employer, not your friend. You’re not weedling hazard pay out of me,” I say, tone dry. 

I’ll most likely live if I take it. He’s a follower and followers can die. I’ve survived on charisma and dumb luck alone these past months and I refuse to give up on it now. 

I eye the philter of potion with a grimace. Oh this is gonna taste like shit ain’t it?

“Dawnstar’s fate rests in that bottle,” Erandur offers unhelpfully. 

I give him an unimpressed look, pop off the cork, and down it like it’s Sujamma. 

I vaguely feel the bottle drop out of my hand when I blink and see two of the cultists before me. A dark elf and a nord. 

I look around, listening to them talk about how the skull can’t fall into enemy hands, blah blah blah, we must release the miasma, blah blah blah. 

Oh, that’s what it is, I’m taller. Not to say being 5’6 originally is something to scoff at, but I’m _ taller _.

“And what about you, brother Casmier, are you ready to serve the will of Vaermina?” The dark elf asks. 

“I’ve made my peace. I’m ready.”

I didn’t say that. Oh dear. 

The two dude run off to defend the skull to the death, and I confused my start walking towards whatever they told me to do. 

I blink. Right. Release the miasma. God this is why I avoid dreams my brain doesn’t work. 

I wander through the battle… like it’s a dream. Get it? Because it’s literally-

I sigh to myself and pull the miasma ring. 

I blink, and suddenly I’m very much not taller anymore. And face to face with a soul gem holding a barrier. 

Oh. Well that was interesting. 

I pluck the soul gem from its stand and watch the barrier fall. 

On the now open side, Stenvar and Erandur stand awkwardly. 

Erandur’s face brightens. 

“It worked. Mara be praised! You disappeared after you took the Dreamstride, and reappeared on the other side. I’ve never seen something like it,” Erandur says, smiling slightly. 

“Very trippy. Very very trippy. That is my only comment,” I state, uncaring about whether or not he gets what I mean. It felt like I was wrapped in some weighted blanket and I couldn’t really feel anything but calm. 

Will not be repeating that experience. 

More words are spoken, ending with “Lead on my friend” in Erandur’s case. 

Well. Guess I’m dragging him along from now on too. More meat shields to go around, plus he shoots fire and knows healing magic.

Oh, we have a tank, a bard, and a cleric now. Nice. 

More corpses, most who aren’t our fault this time, and we come up to the skull. 

I let out an awed breath, _ oh _, because it’s a lovely composition. 

The wide and tall hall leading to stairs, the very top covered by an angry orangish red barrier. The item underneath deceptively normal looking, all things considered. 

A long pole made of ebony, topped by a human skull with curved horns made from the same material. 

We stop, though, because Erandur’s two old friends, the dark elf and nord, come walking before us. Enemies now I suppose. 

They die to Erandur’s fire and mace though, leaving Stenvar and I to watch in morbid curiosity. 

It’s not everyday you see a Priest of Mara kill someone, y’know?

Erandur catches his breath with what dignity he can muster and sheaths his mace, looking on at the final barrier. 

“It's time. The Skull must be destroyed. If you'll stand back, I'll perform the ritual granted to me by Lady Mara,” Erandur says quietly, starting up the stairs. 

I follow him with the same quietness, journal out to record the words he speaks. It’s good to know the right shit to say to a god when you need help.

“I call upon you, Lady Mara! The Skull hungers. It years for memories and leaves nightmares in its wake. Grant me the power to break through this barrier and to send the Skull to the depths of Oblivion!” He states, once at the barrier. 

I stiffen when I hear words ricochet along the walls. 

“_ He is trying to deceive you, _” They start. 

Oh hell no. 

“_ When he finishes his ritual he will take the staff for himself, and kill you, _ ” The words are said in a convincing tone, but I have _ common fucking sense _. So I don’t listen to voices, including Daedra, in my head. 

“_ Kill him now, and take the staff for yourself _.”

Oh, Erandur is having red light flow out of him at the staff. That’s. A thing. 

I wait patiently for Erandur to finish because I will _ not _ be staying in this temple for longer than necessary. 

And then the staff is gone, and Erandur is done. 

Oh now I’m nauseous. 

I sneeze. 

Yeah, I’m definitely leaving this death trap temple and Erandur is coming with me. I shiver at all the bad vibes. 

“Well, that was great. You’re coming with me,” I say, taking Erandur by the arm and beginning my next quest. Leave this temple. God, no more Daedra ever again. 

I sneeze. 

_ Nooooo. _

* * *

We go to sleep, after all that, Erandor already having his own and Stenvar and I going to ours. 

In the morning we regroup though. 

“So, I’m a companion of yours now, then?” Erandur asks while I eat my honey nut treat. 

“If you’d like to be, but I’m not letting you waste away in that death trap. I take you straight to the temple in Riften if I have to,” I say, leaning back against the wall. 

He wouldn’t like that and I can tell immediately from the stiffening of his body language. 

“Ah, that won’t be necessary. I am content to walk with you if you’ll have me,” Erandur says, bowing his head to me. 

Aw, that’s adorable. He’ll up the snark in at least a week. 

“Great, welcome to the team, Sparkles,” I say with a grin, patting his shoulder with my free hand and going back to my food. 

“Sparkles?” He asks the air. 

“You had sparkles from that ritual coming out of your hands for at least an hour afterwards,” Stenvar offers before sipping his ale. 

Alcohol? This early in the morning? Shame. 

I take a drink of my mead. 

“Ah,” the socially awkward probably sixty something year old says, before taking a bite of his vegetable stew. 

“Do you think the Jarl will thank us for the first good night of sleep he’s had in weeks?” I ask Stenvar. 

“Probably not in gold,” Stenvar says. 

“Damn.”

Well, at least we get some gold off those corpses. On that note, no more quests for a while, my body is not happy with all the rolling I’d done. 

“So, do you both often go on adventures?” Erandur asks.

“That’d be a no. I’m an artist by trade, so for the most part we travel for me to find interesting subjects. I don’t doubt Stenvar is well used to adventures though, at his age,” I say, grabbing and handing my last journal to Erandur. “Just some examples for context.”

Erandur flips through from the beginning of the journal, eyebrows rising as he goes. 

“I’ve protected my fair share of milk drinkers, Terror, this is nothing new,” Stenvar says dryly. 

“Oh how lucky I am to have found such an understanding mercenary. Woe is the poor fool who would’ve had to deal with me otherwise.”

“These are wonderful, Tera. I have not been far from the Pale for most of my life, but if I have the opportunity to see more with you I’ll walk gladly,” Erandur says, looking up from one of my drawings. Ah, it’s the sketch I did of Mara in Riften. 

He’s so… polite. And eloquent.

“I’m glad to have you, Erandur,” I say with a half grin. 

* * *

First order of business, Stenvar needs his armor repaired. One of the orc invaders got at his chest piece with a mace and the chest piece is _ not _ looking so hot. 

“It’s fine, Terror,” Stenvar grumbles as we walk down the hill towards the blacksmith. 

“It’s _ not _ fine. My meatshields don’t get to walk around with bad armor.”

“Your meatshield.”

“Yes, Stabby, keep up.”

“I’m paying for it.”

“_ No _, I am. Because I’m your patron. Now hush.”

“Ah, is this how you both normally speak to each other?” Erandur asks carefully from where he’s trailing behind us. 

“Yes,” Stenvar says, giving me his unimpressed look. 

“Would you like some chainmail, Sparkles? I figure you don’t want to lose your robes, but it’d make you feel better if you wear it under it,” I ask Erandur. They probably won’t have it here, it’s more common in Cyrodiil, but they’ll likely have it in Solitude. 

“I don’t know,” Erandur says, looking a bit lost at the too much too fast. 

“It’s okay! We’ve got plenty of time,” I say, slowing my pace a little so I’m walking with him and patting him on the shoulder. 

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

And so there were three. 

_ Hehe, Erandur has a level max of fifty. Gottem, boys. _


	8. Dawnstar to Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s mostly banter and no one bantering is complaining. (well, they’re definitely complaining, just not- oh void it all just read)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit shorter and a bit fluffier than I expected. Back to our regularly scheduled silvertongued shenanigans next chapter.

I eye the hunting bow and iron arrows thoughtfully while Rustlief, one of the two married blacksmiths, is measuring Erandur for a set of chainmail. 

“You shoot?” Stenvar asks me. 

I hum in agreement, gently picking the bow up and drawing the string back to test it. 

The weight is a little heavy, but it’s built for a nord’s hands and stupid muscles. I used to use a compound bow though, so this isn’t too different. 

I haven’t come across any bows in my time here and never really thought to buy one. I haven’t used a bow regularly since middle school, after all, and only practice arrows on styrofoam. 

“My dad taught me when I was younger,” I tell Stenvar, frowning at the squeeze in my chest. 

Fuck off, it’s okay to be sad about this but I have no time for it right now. Hold it in you weenie. 

“Ah,” Stenvar offers, socially aware enough that he doesn’t press a subject like that in front of strangers. 

Such a good mercenary. I lucked out so much. 

“My husband crafted that a few weeks back. Do you find it to your liking?” Saren, the other blacksmith asks. 

I nod. “It’s well made, same with the arrows. How much are you offering for it?” I ask the woman. 

I don’t even know if I’m still any good with it. 

“Seventy-six,” The woman says simply. 

“Standard price for a hunting bow is around fifty, Smith,” I tell the Saren with a sly half smile. 

“You said yourself it’s well made, Traveller,” Saren says, responding easily to the challenge. 

“Tell you what, I pay fifty and throw in a portrait of you and your husband for your child’s future enjoyment,” I offer.

Saren looks surprised, and so does Stenvar a little bit. 

It ain’t hard to tell if you’re looking for it. There’s a bump growing under those blacksmith’s garb and I have the past knowledge from the video game to help. 

“How did you..?” 

I shrug. “I’m good at these things. What do you say? These are trying times, after all. I’d like for my kids to know what I looked like if something went south.”

Grim and probably very very underhanded, but I ain’t paying seventy for a hunting bow when I could just get it off a body for far less. 

“You’re an artist?” Saren asks, arms crossed and looking me up and down. 

Well, I’ve got ink on my hands already at this time of the morning, and there’s a pen and journal in my hand. 

So yes. 

“I’m a traveling artist by trade. You can see some of my work here if you’re unconvinced,” I say, holding my journal out to her. 

She takes it, looking like she’s not expecting much, but her eyebrows go up once she starts flipping through. 

Gottem. 

* * *

Note, I can shoot. But, not fast. Not fast at all. 

Dodging and slashing it is. 

There is one thing that was fruitful though. 

“Lockpicks,” Stenvar states, blandly. 

I half grin. 

“What? There are perfectly respectable reasons to have them.” I want to check if the locks here are as shit as the ones in game. If so, well, let’s just say I’m not _ wholly _opposed to crime. 

“If you get sent to jail I’m not waiting for you,” Stenvar says. 

“Of course you won’t, you’ll be in the cell right next to me. Oh! Even better, _ as cellmates _.”

“I’m unsure of how Mara would see my going to jail, Tera,” Erandur says carefully. 

“It’s very in the spirit of love to fight and be tossed in jail for your comrades, Sparkles.”

“Of course. Right next to being buried next to them, Terror.”

“How grim! The lack of faith mine own friend has in me! Woe! Woe, tainting my heart in pain and suffering.”

“You done, Silvertongue?”

“Ah, are you going to get in the boat or not?” The rowmen I’m paying to take us to Solitude asks, slowly. 

I turn off my Shakespearean angst in a blink of an eye. 

“Of course, sir, of course. Watch your step, Stenvar, don’t want to jostle that hip,” I hum as I climb into the boat carefully. 

“Careful I don’t jostle your head,” Stenvar says dryly, waving Erandur on before him and lightly tapping the top of my head with his fist to emphasize his point. 

Erandur sighs. 

“All settled then? Great,” The rowmen says, sending us off into the water. “Ever been to Solitude then? It’s the capital of Skyrim, though you probably already know that.”

Oh~! A talker. This’ll be fun. 

“I know some, why don’t you tell us more? I’m sure you know much after boating so many people back and forth,” I ask, words just a smidge dipped in honey. 

Now Stenvar sighs. Erandur however, who’s sitting next to me, leans forward in interest. 

“Hm. Well, suppose I’m real familiar with the docks.” The only sounds that disturb us now is the water and my pen on paper. “It’s run by the East Empire Trade Company. Couple of overtaxing hoarders I’d you ask me, run by that cousin of the Emperor, Vittoria Vici. Didn’t hear that from me, though.”

_ -“Overtaxing Hoarders” _ I write in careful script. 

“Of course,” I offer with an ever sincere smile. 

“Speaking of, last I heard the Lady was getting married. Forgot who the lad was, though.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Was it a lad? Bah, probably. Those Imperial nobles are a prickly sort.”

Some interesting cultural tidbits, how fascinating. 

“Is it as large of a city as I’ve heard?” I ask. 

“Likely. The palace is up at the edge of a cliff, and the wealth trickles down the hill. Won’t be seeing many beggars though, the Thanes don’t like seeing ‘em.”

Oh I’m getting so much dirt on anyone who makes the mistake of speaking to me when we get there. I’m so excited. 

Uh. I mean, oh noooo, poor working class. Down with the bourgeoisie. 

Erandur sighs. “Not much has changed from my last stay, then.”

This’ll be interesting. 

* * *

Holy fuck that is one big ass cliff. 

Ugh, this is gonna mean stairs, huh?

I adjust the straps of my bag on my shoulders and help Erandur out of the boat. 

“I have not been here since before becoming a priest to my lady Mara,” Erandur says quietly, contemplative. 

Oh trauma how you color the past. 

I pat Erandur’s shoulder. 

“And here marks the first time you come with friends like us,” I state, giving him a smile. 

Erandur smiles back. 

“Of course.”

Stenvar is rolling his eyes and I not so subtly punch his unarmored arm. He doesn’t flinch. 

We begin heading up the way to the city, and I draw the ships and barrels and people as we go by. 

“So can you play the lute, Erandur?” I ask as we go. 

“Ah, yes. Not as well as most at the college, but I have kept the skill somewhat.”

“Great! I’ll buy you a lute when we get to the city.”

Erandur immediately starts sputtering.

“Don’t bother, she does what she likes and we follow her lead,” Stenvar says dryly, reaching over to fuck up my hair. 

“No you may not, you giant!” I declare, ducking and shooing his hand away. 

We come up to Katla’s farm and I spot a red-shirted redhead tending to some chickens. 

Oh shit I forgot about Sophie in Windhelm. I’m a terrible person. Ah, she probably won’t freeze to death sleeping on the streets of one of the coldest cities in Skyrim?

Yikes. 

Anyways, Blaise(?) is probably fine. He’s got a job! 

Until he grows up into teenage-hood and realizes he has very few prospects without a trade, then likely joining the military or being a forever farmhand. 

...I am not pulling children along with me on my “adventures”. They’ll die. 

I grimace and keep walking. I hope I don’t walk in on an execution. 

Who knows, maybe this Dragonborn will say “fuck you” and adopt any children left unattended nearby. 

We step inside the city gates and luckily aren’t greeted by a man losing some essential weight. 

“Right. Rooms first. Then we go snooping about,” I say, spotting the Winking Skeever even if the city definitely looks bigger. 

More houses. More businesses. More people, definitely.

But the Winking Skeever is one of the first businesses you can spot in the city, so again, not too hard. 

We head inside, Stenvar and Erandur chatting idly about the differences in the city since the Great War, like old people, and I head up to the counter with a sparkling smile. 

Herbs and twigs work just as effectively as a toothbrush and toothpaste, if you have enough spite. 

The inside is fairly large. The counter to the front of the door with alcoves to the left, and a hall to the right where patrons are drinking and eating. 

Blues and reds and it smells a bit like lavender. 

Overall, 10/10 for presentation. 

“Evening, Innkeep! Do you have any rooms available?” I ask. 

The Innkeep, who I forgot the name of, smiles. 

“I’ve got one open right now. Only one bed though,” He says. 

I turn back to my dudes, lifting an eyebrow. 

Erandur is busy studying the room, and Stenvar shrugs, not giving a single fuck. 

I shrug back. Fair enough. 

“We’ll take it for four nights. How much?” I ask. 

“Twenty Septims a night, so eighty coin,” The strawberry blond haired man says, waiting patiently for me to hand over the money. 

I fish one of my many pouches of gold, this time from my sleeve, and I’m pretty sure there’s a hundred there. 

“Here’s a hundred. Don’t suppose that extra twenty can cover tonight’s dinner?” I ask. 

“For the company of a priest and a pretty lass? Sure.” He grins a little too much there. I stifle my unimpressed look with an iron will. Stenvar, however, doesn’t bother. 

I hand over the pouch with the same shiny smile. I’m hungry. And tired. And maybe probably need a bath. Not that I mind the smell of sea salt, it’s just not very nice on your hair. 

We drop all our stuff in the room, and I have to stop myself from dropping in the bed on sight. 

Soft blankets. Nice pillows. _ Ugh. _

“How are we sleeping tonight?” I ask Erandur and Stenvar. 

“I’ll take an edge,” Stenvar says, tugging off his armor for the plainclothes beneath. 

“I’ll take the other edge then, if you both do not mind,” Erandur says, attempting to find the energy to take his under-chainmail off. 

“Middle it is for me,” I say. I don’t bother with any ‘_ please no molesting in sleep guys _’, I doubt any of us need it said. 

“You better not snore, Stabby, or I’ll be tempted to smother you,” I say instead, smirking. 

“You slept through a snowstorm, Terror.”

“The point still stands.”

Erandur, who finally gave in and has his overrobes halfway up his head, sighs. “I do not want to find your bony knees in my back, Tera. Nor hear any snoring, Stenvar.”

“My knees are _ not _ bony, Sparkles.”

“You’re lanky, Terror, it comes with the territory.”

“It’s perfectly acceptable for one your age to be lanky, do not worry yourself.”

“You should worry. I could snap you like a twig.”

Erandur sighs again, deeper. 

A knock comes from the door and the three of us look over to see it open. 

“Just came with your dinner-” Says a man probably in his early twenties, close to my age. He cuts himself off when he sees a Dunmer priest of Mara with his overrobes around his arms, a maybe Imperial teenager blinking slowly at him, and a Nordic mercenary with more scars than freckles clearly on display. 

“Ah, I’ll just, uh, set this over here,” He says. You can see the Innkeeper's features in his face though his hair is black. Same blue eyes, same nose, same bone structure. He sets the tray of food down on a table by the door and quickly evacuates the premises. 

“Adorable,” I offer, already belining for the sweet rolls. 

“You would think so,” Stenvar says, and it’s safe to assume unless otherwise stated that his voice is drier than the Sahara. 

“Careful, Stabby, your prickly edges are showing,” I say, taking a bite of the warm pastry and humming in enjoyment. 

I should probably go downstairs and fish for information, but I’m tired. When that dude comes back, who I think I recognize from in game, I’ll ask about where to get a bath around here. 

* * *

I blink sleepily, aware that there’s an arm draped over my blanket covered stomach that I’m cuddling and that my leg is thrown over someone else’s. 

“Is the sun up?” I grumble. 

“No,” Erandur grumbles back, built like a fucking heater. It’s no wonder I’m holding his arm like a stuffed animal. 

“It’s up,” Stenvar says, half as sleepy sounding but that isn’t really much in comparison. He too, is apparently built like a heater. 

“Would you complain if I steal more warm, Erandur?” I mumble, eyes half lidded. 

Erandur makes a sound that might be an affirmative. I tug his arm and sigh happily when more warm is on my back. 

Weird how close you get to people after spending a day inside a murder temple with them, two more wandering a port town, and six or so hours on a boat. Stenvar had even more time with my idiocy. 

I blame daedra. 

Fuck what study said you had to spend like a hundred hours with someone to be friend-friends? How many days is a hundred hours? 

Ugh, fuck it. Erandur is probably creating quick attachment to deal with the fact he just killed his old brothers from separate mothers. Same with me with the trauma of being tossed into another reality. 

Stenvar is probably just happy to get some entertainment, I’ll be honest. 

“Skyrim is so fucking _ cold _,” I grumble. 

“Wear a thicker cloak over that sweater,” Stenvar says. 

“Or, I could retire to southern Cyrodiil and die of goblins,” I retort. 

“That’s if the second Aldmeri war doesn’t kill you,” Stenvar says. 

“Psh, I can take on a couple Thalmor. I’ll just pretend to be useful and then escape to become a hermit.”

“I would wager the dragons are a greater problem, as of current,” Erandur mutters. 

“Eh, the Dragonborn will handle that. I hear she’s very good at killing them.”

It won’t take long. As far as I know she’s doing shit with Delphine now, and soon she’ll be getting her own Blade Temple that isn’t actually her’s, because Delphine is a dick. 

“I’m getting some food,” Stenvar says, getting up. My leg drops unceremoniously in the warm patch of bed he left behind. 

I groan stretching my arms above my head. 

“Onward, troops, to food!” I say, arms stretched high above my head as I sit up. 

Erandur practically rolls out of the bed. All with his, usually covered and deceivingly long, black hair the picture of bed head. 

Stenvar looks unimpressed even while he pulls on his armor. Rude. 

First order of business, put on day clothes, second, _ snoop. _Along with eating breakfast and probably getting a warmer cloak. 

But mostly snooping. Oh, and selling art. That… should probably be a higher priority but I never said I was a good planner. 

Well. Here goes nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: how do i increase the bonding  
Me: aND tHeRe wAs onLy oNE beD.  
Me: *quick read through* yeah, that works.
> 
> (also i wrote this instead of doing online school so there’s that)


	9. Bards, Jarls and Thanes, Oh My!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tera: *breathes*
> 
> Fate: I’m gonna have to stop you right there
> 
> Fate: *PLOT*

Solitude is… clean. 

Well, clean isn’t the right word for it. Solitude is stone and yellow bricked roofs and clearly maintained flowers. Solitude is Imperials and Nords and Bretens walking about in clothes of varying degrees of value, but all well taken care of. Solitude is sunshiny rose colored fog. 

They haven’t been touched by the war like the other provinces, not in the same way. They lost their king and their people take up arms under the empire, but it doesn’t  _ feel _ the same. 

“You’re thinking. That’s a sign of incoming trouble,” Stenvar says. 

Erandur has already left, intending on meeting a priest he knows in the temple, but also intending on meeting up again in the market by midday. 

Good for him, though I have no clue what priests talk about when they meet up. Temple gossip? New initiates? Thoughtful silence in front of a silent altar?

Stenvar stayed though, as always. He’s a very good bodyguard for all our banter. 

“Trouble? Since when do I cause trouble?” I ask, faux aghast. 

“Morning after I met you-”

“Okay fine shut up.”

I draw whatever catches my eye, from the dragon lilies planted around to the people browsing the market. 

I spot an elderly man at the edges, in rags with one blind eye. 

Something Eagle eye. Who the hell left a veteran out here to rot?

I promptly stick my nose in his business. 

I walk carefully towards the man, waving for Stenvar to go look like he’s preoccupied with something else. He rolls his eyes and leaves me to my meddling to watch from a distance. 

I offer an open half grin, leaning on the wall beside him. 

“Well met. What’s your story, old man?” I ask, already starting a portrait.

“What? You see a man fallen on hard times, and you think he's been like that forever?” The man says, guarded but not unwilling to share. "I was there. I fought in the Great War. I was on the field at Anvil. And when I was struck down, they left me."

“And people just leave you here to beg?” I ask, frowning. 

“Bah, and do what otherwise? Not charity in the hearts of any of these people. Not with all the damned Imperials around.”

I’m buying him clothes. Stupid stupid bad morals, the damn things he has won’t keep him warm over the winter. Maybe some leather armor too, blankets-

Ugh. Feelings. Gross.

“I’d like to help you old man, if you’ll let me,” I sketch out his beard with ease. “My name is Tera, I’m an Artist by trade.” I hold out a hand for him to shake. 

He takes it, uncertain. 

“Noster Eagle-Eye,” He says, carefully. 

“Let’s get you some warmer clothes.”

Fuck it, I have the money, might as well. 

—

Once I’ve fed, watered, clothed and armored Noster to my satisfaction, it’s already time to meet Erandur at the market. 

Noster said he owed me an unpayable debt. I told him if his honor demanded it, just keep his eye on the streets for me and I’ll pay him for anything of interest.

Oh, is this how people get spies? I think this is how they get spies. 

“That was nice of you,” Stenvar says, voice decidedly not dry. 

“I know. How out of character,” I say, voice decidedly the opposite. I’ll need to sell art for the rest of the day to make up for the loss, but it’s worth it. I helped someone who needed it and I got something out of it. 

We walk into the large circle of market stalls and I spot Erandur’s cowled head. 

“Sparkles!” I say, heading towards the man. 

He turns, and smiles a bit when he spots us. 

“Ah, hello. How has your morning been?” He asks, polite. 

“She’s collecting spies,” Stenvar says, voice now back to its usual  _ “I drip sarcasm and am unimpressed with all of your jokes Tera” _ .

“I am  _ not _ ,” I say, y’know, like a liar. 

“I feel like as the eldest I should be doing something here, but I don’t think I will,” Erandur says.

“If I had spies I’d have couriers in my pocket first to make sure they could bring me findings,” I continue, sniffing.

“Silvertongue.”

“ _ Goldeye _ .”

Erandur sighs. 

I huff and walk over to a clear spot on the ground and drop my bag there, pulling out my sitting cushion and painting supplies with ease. 

I’d ask if I need a license to be here, but feigning ignorance would go over far easier. 

I take a seat. 

“The both of you can stand menacingly behind me, if you’d like,” I tell Erandur and Stenvar. 

“My, I thought you’d never ask,” Stenvar says, going to do just that. 

“I’ll sit beside you, if you don’t mind it,” Erandur says. I shrug and take the cushion out from under me, setting it on the ground beside me with a pat. 

Erandur goes to argue but I tug him down with a roll of my eyes. The cobblestone won’t hurt me.

I start painting some of my drawings from the past few days, chatting with Erandur about color theory, most of which I’m pulling out of my ass. 

Once one or two curious onlookers come to see what’s happening and buy a few pictures, things get rolling again. Some people want portraits, some just want an already drawn picture, some want to watch me paint. I get paid nonetheless. 

“Hm, I think before it gets dark I want to visit the Bard’s College,” I say once I’ve earned at least four-hundred and seventy coin. That covers what I spent on Noster and a bit more left over. 

“Finally rejoining your people?” Stenvar asks, as I pack my things up again. 

“Har har, how a mere mortal man could master humor in such a way I have no clue,” I state. 

“It’s best I don’t join you in that, then, Tera. The Bard’s college would not welcome my presence,” Erandur says. 

I give Stenvar a look. 

“Fine, we’ll drink while Silvertongue here has battles of wits, or whatever milk drinkers do,” Stenvar says, waving his hand dismissively as he starts walking towards the Inn. 

Erandur blinks in surprise before following. “We will see you when you get back, Tera!” 

“Bold of you to assume I’ll get back at all,” I say, grinning when Erandur rolls his eyes. Yesss, the corruption has begun!

—

I miss Skyrim’s background music. 

I step inside the college and blink at the familiar tunes drifting around the building and pretend my heart doesn’t ache. 

If only my dumbass learned an instrument while I could, now I’m stuck with just art. 

I spot a student sitting at a bench and walk up to her. 

“Hello there!” I greet, and I note the way she flinches in surprise when she looks up from her book. 

She’s a nord, you can see the cheekbones, but her hair is black and stops just below her chin. Very very sapphire blue eyes lined with heavy kohl. 

_ Pretty.  _

My heart. So pretty. 

“Oh! Um, hello. Are you here to join the college?” She asks. 

“No, though I am interested in buying a lute for a friend. I’m Tera, an artist by trade. And you?” I hold out a hand to her. 

“Illdi, I’m a bard- or, well, you could probably already tell that?” She flushes and shakes my hand. “Are you here to do portraits for the Thanes?”

What a  _ splendid _ idea.

“That’s the hope, though one never knows about the whims of Thanes,” I say. Illdi nods in agreement.

“I hope I’m not being bold, but would you mind being the subject of a few sketches?” I ask, monkey hindbrain still chanting pretty. 

Illdi looks shocked for a moment, before smiling widely with teeth. “Of course! One artist to another,” She says. “Should I position myself or...”

I wave her off, already crouching diagonally from her and sketching. “No no, just do as you would be doing. How has your day been?” 

Illdi looks nervous for a moment, but stuffs down the nerves. “It’s been well enough, I suppose. We’ve been learning war songs from the early third era in my classes.”

The light is streaming through all the fancy windows, making the building appear bright and airy. Illdi’s smile is a bit crooked towards the left, but crooked like Margeory’s in Game of Thrones. Her natural smile is a bit more like a grinning smirk than a big show of teeth, but the way her eyebrows lift-

Oh ho ho I’ve caught a good one. 

“War songs, huh? How much chanting? I’ve heard the old Dovahzuul songs liked their chanting,” I comment, watching Illdi wonder where she should be putting her hands. 

“We haven’t touched many ancient songs, though Jorn has been insisting on finding some- Oh, Jorn is another student here. He plans on being a war bard for the Imperials after graduating.”

I hum, sketching the curve of her neck to shoulders. 

“Sounds dangerous. Then again, I walk around Skyrim drawing for a living, so who am I to judge,” I say. 

This, I think, is where all the next few days of trouble begin. A sunny afternoon on Tirdas, the eighth day of Hearth Fire of the year 201, 4E. 

No, I didn’t just buy a calendar. Shut up. 

—

I spend some time talking and probably(?) flirting with Illdi, but it’s not my fault. She smiles like starlight. 

Oh no. We’re in Crushville USA. Help. 

I walk out of the College with a lute, a few more pages of sketches than I was expecting, and the distinct feeling that something is going to go awry. I’ve learned to trust those feelings. 

I stroll down the darkening streets of Solitude, reading over the information I was able to gather through my pleasant chat and enjoying Skyrim. 

I forget, if I get caught up in things. The weird ache of familiarity that leaves me half expecting the background ambiance music. It smells like salt water and the cold, here, I can hear, if I focus hard enough, the winds coming up from the water below. 

I’d like to explore, I think, after the Dragonborn fully completes her Odyssey. When Alduin dies, Harkon faces justice for his vampire-ness, when Miraak underestimates her, I think I’ll be ready to see more. 

I watch people walk around, either in the direction of the residential district or the taverns. 

Or maybe I won’t. 

A cozy home in the wilds, maybe in Falkreath or The Rift. Or in Whiterun. Sounds nice. 

I dunno. I’ll figure it out at some point. I’m still seventeen going on eighteen, no need to rush shit. 

I tug my warm cloak closer, shivering. First let’s get some warm stew in me and check to see that Stenvar and Erandur haven’t died of boredom. 

I look up at the sky, letting myself get caught up in the Aurora borealis and the only moon visible tonight. 

—

The day started nice. 

I’d slept in, Erandur tried to explain how to braid hair, I didn’t understand at all, Stenvar stretched. All in all, a good start. 

Now I’m illustrating a portrait for the Jarl of Solitude and probable High Queen of Skyrim. 

There was a series of events that lead to this, none of which were my fault, but at this very moment my current focus is on “don’t fuck up your one shot to get in with the grieving and vulnerable ruler of the country”. 

Which honestly? It’s not that hard. 

Elisif the Fair. 

She is elegance. Her hands shake when she forgets to clamp them in the skirt of her dress. She couldn’t be older than twenty five. Red hair falls down to her chest, pretty seaglass eyes with bags under them. 

I can see how she gained the moniker “the Fair”. When I pull a smile onto her face the grief is almost gone. Almost. 

She’s barely older than me and now she has her whole world resting on her shoulders. Her country, her hold, her husband’s mantle of power. Frankly, I think seeing someone her age who’s friendly and not visibly trying to take advantage of her is all it takes to get closer. 

So I do. 

“What’s the story behind that staff you keep next to the throne, my Jarl?” I ask, scarf pulled down and my lips pulled into a half smile. 

“Oh, that? Well, I dabbled a bit in magic, when I was younger. I was never particularly good, but staves didn’t require magicka or finesse,” Elisif says, turning to look at the orange, orb topped thing. 

Let’s hope I get out of this still alive, from the looks I’m getting from some thanes and Elisif’s personal guard. 

—

Stenvar makes fun of me, the ass. 

“What was it you said yesterday? When have I ever caused trouble?” He asks. 

“You’re a cruel man, Stenvar. Cruel. I just got paid a very hefty bag of gold and made friends with the Jarl of Solitude, I’m a perfectly respectable member of society,” I say with a little grin. 

“Tell that to the Windhelm guard,” Stenvar says with a raised eyebrow. 

I make a face at him that properly shows my feelings on that. 

I’m sketching the Solitude gardens and going over what information I could gather on the Thanes, as of current. They have a ridiculous amount of Dragonstongue and Lavender. 

Slow sure strokes bring the flowers in front of me into being, and Erandur is humming what sounds like The Age of Aggression beside me, plucking at his new lute. 

Well, at least I hope it’s Age of Aggression. Age of Oppression isn’t exactly appropriate in Solitude. 

“Ah, if it isn’t the talk of the court!”

I recognize that voice, ugh. 

I smile readily, curving my eyes just so and hopefully looking youthful and stupid. 

“Ah, I’m sure the court has other concerns!” I say easily, words like honey and I know Stenvar well enough to know he’s making a face on the inside. “A simple artist isn’t all that interesting in a city with a Bard’s College.”

Thane Erikur has no reason to approach me unless he sees an opportunity or its Guild business. 

“Nonsense, you seem to be making a name for yourself in more places than Solitude,” Erikur says, playing the game. 

Now is he talking about my information or the temple in Dawnstar is the real question. 

“I’ve heard we have mutual acquaintances who speak fondly of your skills, if you’d like to take a walk through the garden and speak of it?” Erikur asks. 

Information, then. Is Brynjolf telling everyone about my business?

“Of course, of course. I’ll be back in a little bit, Stenvar, Erandur,” I tell the two still men, still the picture of ease. 

“We’ll be here. Shout if something tries to stab you,” Stenvar says, arms crossed and serious. Aw, he’d risk the Solitude jail to stab Erikur if need be. How nice. 

“Will do, my friend.”

And with that, we’re walking, side by side. 

What was it Solas said in Dragon Age Inquisition? The smell of power and heady intrigue permeates the air?

For now it simply smells of nightshade and the cold. 

“Is Brynjolf telling everyone within earshot of my skills?” I ask frankly, my face still the picture of softly smiling ease. 

“He’s trying to grapple that shambles of a guild out of the Ratway, so yes,” Erikur says, his mask is still in place too, but his words are caustic. 

“What do you need of the Silvertongue, Thane?” I ask, settling down on a hidden bench and beginning to sketch Erikur’s face. It’s my calling card now, apparently, thanks to Stenvar’s nickname. 

“You’re professional, at least. Better than the last fools that Mercer pointed me towards,” Erikur says, his words contrast so prettily with his handsome face. Handsome, unfortunately for everyone, does not mean kind looking, though. “I need information on when the Dainty Sloud next docks, can you get it?”

Dainty Sloud- wasn’t that apart of the bad deal Erikur got?

** _26th of Heartfire, mid evening._ ** _ _

_ what the fuck. _

That wasn’t mine. Who the  _ fuck?? _

Shit, focus. Guess a daedra wants me to get paid. 

“Lucky for you, I have that information. Payment first, two-hundred-fifty,” I say, looking out at the garden and holding a hand out. 

“You, well- Guess you are good,” Erikur says. “Two-hundred.”

“Two-hundred-twenty, I’m not going lower.”

“Well, I couldn’t say no to such a pretty face,” Erikur says, and I look over to see a smirk on his face. 

Ugh. 

I make a grabby motion with my hand, expression too serene to be natural. 

Man, I’m about to trust a probable Daedra. This is how people get got. 

He counts out the coins and hands them over once I’ve scribbled out the date and tucked it in between two pages of flower sketches. 

We make the trade, and I stand, stretching. 

“Pleasure doing business, Thane Erikur. Will that be all?” I ask, looking down at him with a tilt of my head. 

If he talks more I can weedle so many little secrets out of him. Of course, none of that shows on my face, just a pretty upward curve of my lips and eyes. 

Ohhh, so this is how people embrace grey morality. Well, he deserves it. He’s a gross person. 

“Now now, you know what they say about mixing business and pleasure, Artist,” Erikur says. 

Well, it’s all business for me. Nothing pleasurable about being near you other than the gain. 

“Ah, that’s not fun, Thane Erikur,” I say, pouting just a little. “I suppose it is to be expected, a man like you is certainly too busy.”

I feel gross. Come on,  _ dumbass _ , take the bait. 

Stroking his ego, however, seems to have worked. 

“Well, I do have time until the court has a need of me again,” Erikur says, standing from his seat. “A real walk through the gardens with a pretty lady on my arm couldn’t do any harm.”

And that’s on  _ Speech 100 _ , bitches. 

That shouldn’t have worked, he really can’t be that stupid, can he? Then again, I’m a lanky teenage girl, he likely underestimates me despite my whole Silvertongue thing. 

I brighten. 

“Wonderful! Tell me, what does a man like you do on a daily basis? I’m certain advising our Lady Jarl is riveting work,” I ask.

This shouldn’t be so  _ easy.  _ I’m suspicious. Which Daedra could be doing it? Not Sheogorath, I’m not feeling particularly crazy. Molag Bal is out too. Nocturne? Christ,  _ Hermeus Mora _ ?

I hide the little notes I take while I walk with Erikur beside pictures of the flowers and bushes and trees. 

—

Shaking Erikur isn’t so hard when his Housecarl comes along to tell him a report on something they wouldn’t say while I was near. 

“It was a pleasure, Thane Erikur,” I hum, as if I didn’t just gain half his dirty secrets in an hour. 

Well, probably not half, but enough for blackmail. 

“And you, Artist. Do come along if you’d like a much  _ longer _ distraction.”

Ugh. Slimy, gross gross gross.  _ This _ is why I like women more than men. 

“Oh you  _ are _ a fun one. Good day,” I say with a half grin instead of shouting that I’m underage for another month. 

Shit, it is almost my birthday, isn’t it? Sure hope the world doesn’t get swallowed before then. 

I walk along and find Stenvar and Erandur where I left them, though Stenvar looks twitchy and Erandur is frowning. 

“Don’t wander off with morally questionable Thanes without me again, Silvertongue,” Stenvar says when he sees me, looking like he was a second away from pacing. 

“Oh you  _ do _ care!” I say with a real grin, this time. 

“You seem unharmed. What business did you have with him, Tera?” Erandur asks. 

I look around the garden, masked by casual air around me. 

“Better said at the inn, Sparkles. Did you two have fun while I was gone, at least?” I ask, head tilted. 

“We chatted idly for a little while, but the longer you were gone the more worried we became,” Erandur says, standing from his seat on a bench. 

“All is well, Sparkles, don’t worry,” I say, reaching over and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now, to the inn?”

We walk back to the inn, Stenvar and I starting up some banter again by the time we get there and head up to our room. 

I shut the door, and look at a concerned looking Erandur. I open my mouth-

“Silvertongue here is with the Thieves Guild, she’s an information broker,” Stenvar says before I can. 

“Hey! I’m not  _ with _ the Guild. I  _ deal _ with the Guild. Two very different things, I assure you,” I say, making a face. 

Erandur looks very taken aback. 

“Oh, so that’s why you’re always writing beside your drawings?” Erandur asks, understanding blooming in his face. 

“Yup. I was selling Erikur information, then I milked him for blackmail with a smile,” I say simply. 

Erandur looks uncertain. 

“I’m unsure of how Lady Mara would feel about that, but if she could accept me, I can accept your less than legal deals.”

“That somehow isn’t as comforting as I think you meant it to be, Sparkles.”

“Don’t go near that slimeball again without me at your back, Silvertongue, he looked like a leach,” Stenvar cuts in. 

I shake my head. “As much as I wish you could, not having an armed bodyguard at my back creates a much easier atmosphere to work in,” I explain, grimacing.

Stenvar looks like he doesn’t like it, but nods.

“I need an ale. You coming?” 

Oooh! Mead! Mead to help forget the Daedra and gross Thane with wandering eyes!

The things I do for money, man. 


End file.
